


A Tale of the Bird and the Bar

by HaephestusCrex



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU??, Action & Romance, Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gen, Multi, Reader-Insert, Wish Fulfillment, and i simp for the commander, bro i dont know anymore, cracky premise taken extremely seriously lol, i just felt the ackermann shit was rushed so expect that to go down different, idk man this one has no real plan i just love the wake-up-in-another-world genre, vague timeline tweaks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27898591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaephestusCrex/pseuds/HaephestusCrex
Summary: One of those F!Reader-falls-into-a-fictional-world indulgences, except, y'know, it's Isayama's unforgiving world of Shingeki no Kyojin, you're a nobody, and the kind of person you are determines the kind of hero you want to be.In which you have to become something from nothing and try to stop the tidal waves of death you know are coming, or die trying.So, you have to get Erwin Smith's attention.There is no other way.
Relationships: Erwin Smith/Reader
Comments: 101
Kudos: 356





	1. The Root of It

**Author's Note:**

> [[ AN: this... wouldn't leave my head I'm sorry. You should all go and read Attract on Titan though - it's better and amazing. ]]

_Chapter One_

**The Root of It**

It had taken three hours for it to finally sink in when you first got here, and even now, it still felt like a surreality. It might always feel that way, until something changes. Now, when your tongue is so swollen in your mouth that you cannot feel the ache in your bones from poor sleep over the yowling hunger in your belly, any euphoria or excitement at being in a world where you seemingly knew all the rules had died quickly when you realise there is no way back, and for all intents and purposes, you’re stuck in a quasi-1800s hellscape with no support network, no money, and nobody you care about. To top it off, the realisation that this, is in fact, one of the most terrifying and unforgiving worlds to be trapped in was enough to make you dry heave when your - debatable - mortality came up. The disdainful mutters of people ignoring your plight, curled up against the side of a ramshackle building, holding your stomach in pain - _another one -_ they’d say, lips curved in an expression of distaste - _a Shiganshina leftover._

That told you, that you were somewhere in the year 846 _probably -_ if you had to guess, it was after the fall of Wall Maria, and the nation’s attempt at thinning the population in a doom-driven attempt at reclaiming said wall in order to alleviate the famine. All you had was the knowledge in your head and the clothes on your back, so it’s little wonder you’re close to death in a short period of time.

_“Leave her alone, Hamburg, she’s homeless.”_

Even in your hunger-induced disorientation, you manage to tense up when you hear some male voices near you, talking about you.

“Hey, hey girlie - yeah you, I’m talking to you,” you flinch, feeling the tip of a shoe poking crudely into your arching side. You slowly jerk your head up from your knees, looking at two, tall, shadowy men through a messy curtain of dark hair, which was starting to thicken and matt with grime over time.

The figure that prodded you lets out a disproving cluck from back of his throat, shaking his head at you.

“You hungry?” there’s a sort of predatory undercurrent in his tone, and despite how tired you are, and how loudly your stomach growls its answer in response, you can still feel your danger sense going into overdrive.

You want to utter _no sir,_ but your tongue is so swollen that it’s hit the roof of your mouth, and you can’t even expend the effort to talk, a low rumble leaving your closed lips instead, whilst you shake your head negatively.

“Oh, come now, I doubt that. I’ve walked past you every day this week,” he snickers “ - are you sure I can’t tempt you? We don’t live too far from here, you know---”

_“Hamburg, come on, she’s not interested---”_

You feel your stomach churn with pain and now the addition of fear when the shadow of both men falls over your body and obscures the setting sun from your vision, until a loud, booming voice breaks over you and the two figures, who snap their attention to behind their shoulders.

“HAMBURG! I thought I told you to go straight home ya layabout! Warner, be quick about it would ya? I need the trash taking out!” the voice is utterly all-encompassing and drowns out every sound in the immediate vicinity.

The men pull back at the sound of the authoritarian shout, and a large, striding figure comes into view, essentially carolling the other two away until you no longer see or hear any of them. There’s still a cold knot of dread in your stomach though, because the people of this world did not appear at all kind, and your feeble requests for food and information had been going ignored for days now. Truth be told, you did not expect anything positive to come from this, and the man sounded scary, to be honest.

“Was that one bothering you lass?” he’s gruff, and speaks with a slight hoarse crackle at the end of his words. When you don’t immediately reply, the man advances closer, and then slowly squats to his knees, with a pained sort of click in his joints as he does so.

“Oohf!” he grunts, wincing a bit “ - Hells below, my knees aren’t as good as they used to be. You okay?” he’s got wrinkles that line his forehead, indicating his age, with the faint shadow of shaved, red stubble that lines his chin, and long sideburns. He has small, brown eyes and a somewhat crooked nose, but he seems to be smoothing his features into what he hoped was a less intimidating demeanour.

You’re still struggling to talk, but your weak grip squeezes the material of the ratty green jumper that you were wearing, your stomach making a loud noise that answers for you. It’s now that you see the man shaking his head, peering at your sunken eyes with a somewhat annoyed sound.

“Tch, the state of you,” you’re too hungry to be embarrassed, but tilt your head away from him with a sense of defeat. “I have a tavern not too far from here, can you walk?” - he adds.

You make a confused sound, still distrusting but shrug helplessly in response - as you honestly doubted your ability to walk at that point anyway.

“Oh for the love of-- right, come on you miserable wretch, lets have ya,” he tuts, and you let out an alarmed, but somewhat defeated cry when you feel yourself being hoisted onto your aching legs, the weakness in your arms and calves showing in your unsteady gait. Without asking, the man pulls your arm around his side and hoists the entirety of your bodyweight himself once he rises to his full height.

“This is hardly the place to die, is it?” he mutters, his words being the last thing you register in your anxiety and fear, until a rusty, wooden sign you cannot read comes into view, and you’re led into a tavern simply called _Warmaidens._

* * *

To your relief, it seems as though you may have stumbled into the one kind soul in this forsaken, utterly doomed and _miserable_ place. The man who had unceremoniously scooped you up and dragged you into his business was an older gentleman by the name of Luther Braun, he’s a man with thinning auburn hair that looked brown in the dim light and a gentle shade of red whenever it was hit with candlelight. He runs this little tavern himself, and it’s in a somewhat rural - more of an outskirt area really, in the Hermina region, not too far from a more developed town of Falkshein. It’s an area that regularly gets ridden through by various caravans for suppliers and those involved in the Horsefair, which is the travel network that backbones trade from wall to wall and funds most of the mare breeders.

“It’s not much, but get as much of it down as you can, you look like one hard wind will knock you down,” Luther snaps, shoving a large, brown clay bowl of watery seeming broth which is an ambiguous beige colour but gives off a warm scent. In truth, you don’t even register there’s a spoon on the table, and tip the entire contents down your throat, your eyes almost rolling back with delight as it hits your swollen tongue and fills the empty, crunching knot of pain in the base of your gut.

It tastes vaguely of potato - you realise, and a hint of salt as you swill it down. You’ve no doubt it’s mostly water, but you cannot complain of the tastelessness, and see what you recognise as a few scraps of potato skins at the bottom. You’re not sure if it’s decorum to eat that too, but you’re too hungry to pass it up, and scoop it into your mouth and chew as heartily as you can, finally using the spoon on the table and the trembles of hunger-induced weakness finally subside a little.

“Good lass, now get this down you,” he drops a cheap, frothy beer next to your empty bowl, and despite not being much of a beer drinker, you gladly chug it down, still wary that this kindness comes with an unseen price tag.

Apparently, it doesn’t. The man is, despite appearances, a good sort of soul - he turns a small profit and usually serves day labourers, but has been rebranding to try and get more soldiers into his bar, knowing they have a little more coin to spare. Hamburg is one of his regular patrons and a bit of a troublesome sort, and so Luther cuts him off at a certain point and has his grandson, Warner, walk him home. He asks you a few questions - and it’s now you quickly try to summon up the knowledge you at least think you have to try and not look so suspicious.

Your accent is different, your clothes seemed like they might have been nice once, and you don’t have anything to your name.

“My mother passed away in childbirth,” an easy lie that forces you to think about the people you miss, but you quickly disregard it. You'd spent weeks crying and trying to get back, now was not the time to let those feelings of loss and confusion take you over, right now, you needed to survive.

“And my father didn’t return from the mission to take back Maria, I’ve been trying to get by in his absence but I am not doing very well,” you hope that’s enough, and it’s this that causes Luther to sigh, shaking his head with a small, distant look. It felt like a horrible sort of lie to tell, but you figured with so much of the population being culled, it wouldn't be possible to account for every name and every loss of life, at least this way, you hope your documentation and past falling into the abyss is more easily explained, and it seems to work, because Luther's expression slowly changes to something more forgiving.

“There’s a lot of you with stories like that, so many lost folk since the failure to reclaim the wall,” he mutters, cleaning a glass out as he stands behind the bar with a small rag. When you clear the beer as well, the man smiles contently, inviting you to stay there to keep out of the cold.

You look at him warily, clenching the ratty jumper against your torso protectively - because you know he knows that you don’t have any way to pay for that, and you didn’t think you could quite live with the possibility of having to do anything sexual to try and get by. You’d do it if you had to - but you didn’t want to, and as though reading your fearful look for what it is, the man visibly softens.

You can see he’s mulling something over, before nodding resolutely to himself and walking over to you, arms folded over his broad, barrelled chest.

“That’s fine if ya can’t pay - I need an extra hand around here anyway now that Warner’s going off back to college. My every coin goes to that boys tuition, and I’m gonna need the help,” he half complained about what few profit he makes immediately leaving, and in truth, he barely breaks even, and struggles to get in any stock of physical food and can only get exports of low quality beer and cheap, dry gin to keep his business sustained. Even with a good portion of the population culled, there is still quite a bit of recovery left to do in the wake of the famine, because the loss of Wall Maria also meant the loss of agriculture, because a lot of farmland was now thoroughly claimed by titans.

“Are you - are you serious?” a hopeful warble in your tone.

“If I can trust you not to rob me blind, yes,” he says, bluntly - hands settling at his hips. He looks you over crudely once more, and sighs again. “This is a bad town for a pretty face, so you’d best say yes, ‘cause there’s a lot meaner out there than Hamburg and frankly I’m gettin’ too old for this shit,” he says, shaking his head at you.

Well, when he puts it like that, there’s not much of a choice, is there?

“T - thank you, I um, I don’t know what to say - but you won’t regret this Mister Braun,” its been so long since anyone has been kind to you, that you quickly jump on it and pray that it is legitimate, because your only other option is that you die in this wasteland.

“See to it I don’t - now come on, you’re smellin’ up the joint and you look like you need some sleep. I’ll show you where everything is and we’ll talk more later alright?” the man, despite knowing the tremendous kindness he’s doing, asks for very little, and simply herds you from place to place. You’re in such a state that he still supports your weight as you walk around the closed tavern. The truth is, you’re still incredibly weak from how difficult it was to try and get any food, and while that meal went along way, you suspected if you ate more, you’d be sick.

He’s still a complete stranger, but he operates with a sense of familiarity that you couldn’t quite understand - when it becomes apparent he’s not got any suspicious intentions, at least, on the surface, you try to relax when he shoves you into a small wood-floor bathroom. Your internal alarm bells would be ringing after being shoved into a confined, vulnerable space, but he has a very no-nonsense sort of approach, practically throwing you onto a small wooden chair as he begins running some hot water. Hot water! Now that was enough to jerk you out of your frail fugue state when steam begins rising out of the small tub.

It’s still somewhat jarring and almost unpleasant how brashly he moves, and when you quietly remind him you have no clothes to change into, he makes an annoyed grunt and comes back with some oversized men’s clothes. It took all of a week before you’re properly settled, and it seems you’ve struck lucky, as the man has a root cellar, and unlike many people trying to get by after the famine, actually had a decent supply of food. It was still pretty meagre - signs of the nation still recovering, but he had bags, and bags of peas - as they’re easy to grow and trade, a very small stock of potatoes, and a generous amount of salt, so at least you wouldn’t go hungry.

“The tough thing is, getting soldiers in here. Y’know, they’re always riding through along with the rest of the Horsefair but I need them to spend their damn money,” Luther says to you, one night when you’re having dinner in the late evening with him and his grandson, Warner.

“The food could be better,” Warner mumbles, but you just shake your head - they’re lucky there’s food at all.

Any grandiose plans about trying to get somewhere in this world had been put off considerably in favour of just trying to survive, but now that you were somewhere a little more comfortable, a chilling realisation hits. These people - these _nice_ people, were just as important as you, just as whole, and just as in danger, and you had knowledge of the horrors that were to come, how ever could you sleep at night if you were just going to let that happen? The truth is, every time Warner had your back, and Luther taking care of the business - showing you how to change the barrels and manage the regulars, you became more sick with the knowledge of what was going to come.

“Get me in the kitchens more, you throw too much salt on everything,” you poke Warner with the side of your spoon “-and we need to get some more oil in and get frying. I keep telling you, it’s the way of the future,” you introduced the concept of a fried potato, and that had been enough to rock the entire tavern for two weeks.

Most days were like this, with you and Warner rotating shifts until he left for Einrich College again, and you trying to amass enough resources to figure out some sort of plan. You had to move extremely carefully, your story could easily unravel and reveal a suspicious, non-existent past, or worse - you could be seen as an enemy, with such predictive knowledge. Hell, this place was so reminiscent of the 1800s in a lot of ways that you had to wonder if they burned witches - the last thing you needed was that kind of negative attention. You had a nice little life here but it was ultimately a bubble of safety you couldn’t allow to take over your thoughts. It would be easier not to rock the boat, but there’s too much danger here, and too many people at risk for you to abide it.

_‘I need money,’ -_ you realised grimly, because Warner’s clothes were ill-fitting at best and Luther couldn’t afford to pay you in anything more than room and board. In the run up to Warner leaving for Einrich College's new educational term, you also had to have his responsibilities passed onto you, which included going out to barter or hunting. A few times, you'd nearly thrown up when he took you to the nearest forest and successfully managed to take down a small rabbit, which were few and far between due to desperate overhunting during the food shortages, but very quickly you had to adjust to the fact you couldn't afford to be a princess about it, or whine about how much you missed pre-packaged meat, and so with fewer complaints, you took on Warner's hunting gear, and then asked Luther about how you might actually be able to earn some coin, because you were going to need clothes that fit, whatever passed for feminine supplies, and something to get _by_ with before you could start thinking about any larger plans.

“I’ve a friend in the Horsefair - names Franklin, he could do with a hand in the stables. It won’t be much coin but you can get some clothes and supplies. He’s a bit of a miser though - might wanna sweet talk him a bit,” Luther explains, and tosses you a spare key to the root cellar which has a hidden side entrance behind the tavern - which is a sign of implicit trust. “-and tell ‘im I sent ya,” he adds.

And so, much of your days would be filled with hard manual labour, either at Warmaidens, or working for Franklin, who’d have you mucking out stables with disgusting regularity, and loaned you out some horse riding gear that he'd take payment for out of your wages little by little until it was yours exclusively. It wouldn’t be unusual to have you stumbling into the tavern during the late evening, in dirty boots and sweaty jodhpurs, greeting all of your regulars through the main entryway rather than the staff door. Even Hamburg was a little nicer to you - but you suspected that had something to do with Luther threatening to pull his spine out through his throat if he so much as _thought_ about giving you a hard time.

It’s after three or so weeks you learn that Luther used to be a member of the Garrison, and that he specifically wanted to shed the reputation that Warmaidens had gained as a shady establishment, catering to vagabonds and ruffians. You had an idea to offer discounts or drinks offers for serving members of the three regiments, getting Warner to put up a chalk sign out front, which would work as a natural deterrent to the shadier clientèle who would want to avoid the presence of any kind of law enforcement. Luther was a bit reluctant at first, nervous about potentially selling at-cost, but very quickly, the plan appeared to be working.

Slowly, more members of the Garrison, and the occasional MP, would make appearances in Warmaidens.

On one such day, you burst through the front door, jodhpurs covered in sweat and tracking in dirt, you hear Luther shouting from across the bar.

“Side entrance woman! How many times have I told you not to come in smelling of horse shit?” he hollers, while you wave it off casually - you’d mop it up yourself anyway.

“Because it smells so nice in here normally, right?” you shoot back, earning a few smothered chuckles from the nearby tables.

“Yeah yeah, whatever, just hose off and help out will ya?” Luther seems to actually be a little rushed off of his feet, which is surprising, until you register the abundance of green, military issue cloaks draped over various chairs, a mixture of rose emblems and what you swear are a few wings of freedom.

“I just spent eight hours cleaning up after Frankie and hunting! What did your last slave die of?” it’s all good-natured, even if you _are_ incredibly tired. “Where’s Warner?” you huff, waving at one of the men you vaguely recognised as someone that was a Garrison soldier that always ordered the split pea soup and a dry gin every third day of the week without fail.

“Studying, now get that off and get moving, I’m stuck behind the bar!” Luther says, mid-pour of several drinks attesting to that fact.

You roll your eyes, and make your way across the bar, sporting horse riding gear, a long rifle on your back and a long string of meat over your left shoulder. Thankfully, back in - well - before you got here, you were a good shooter recreationally, a skill you didn’t think would ever come into serious use before now. Clay pigeons were also very different to actually hunting game, but with food prices being astronomically high, especially for bulk purchase - and not everyone wanted to trade for peas, you’d become something of a legend for going out into the surrounding woodland and coming back with a string of dead birds hanging from a rope by the neck. It was a little grim the first few times, but it turns out whatever these - well - _things_ were, tasted excellent and gamey, and hard enough to catch that there was an abundance. The independence to go out and get a feel for the land was very much valued, but quickly you came to realise that however Luther got a hold of his buckshots and rifles were perhaps not the most legal to own once you were out of the army, when some were clearly military-issue only. The gun at the top of the bar, discreetly out of view, was a traditional pump-action shotgun from a bygone era, with a military issue weapon rifle under the bar itself that used to be issued to MPs and Garrison very sparingly back in the day,

This would become a problem in a few days, because eventually you’d need to hunt more, and that would mean finding out whoever Luther dealt with for his arms deals, because you'd taken to using the latter as a more effective hunting rifle, though none of the patrons seemed to particularly notice - or care if they did - as it's clear you're hunting game with it, and the area is far enough from the cities that flagrant civilian ownership of firearms wasn't exactly strange.

“Fucking hell, right through the front door? People are eating Birdy! You're covered in blood, you look a horror show!” Luther exclaimed, noticing the string of dead birds with an annoyed look. Warner had imparted proper hunting habits on you, even through your pallid expression and visible balking, and swallowing vomit back into your throat, he'd caught you how to cut from breast to backside, squeeze out blood and viscera, and then pack birds with dry grass to soak up any other fluid, seal the cavity and keep bugs out whilst they dried on your belt. Field dressing nearly made you pass out the first few times, but you had to force yourself to remember how not too long ago you'd nearly died of starvation, and that you'd have probably eaten a pigeon raw if you could have grabbed one, and so grudgingly got through the process. It had to be done, so none of the meat would actually get lost by the time the body cooled down, apparently plucking or skinning the feathers off took off a lot of meat with it if it isn't done while the body was still warm - Warner had painstakingly taught you all of the rules and methods he'd found had worked, and forced you to repeat back how the rules changed during cold weather. It was brutal work, and often you'd come back covered in sizeable flecks of animal blood from the process, which most patrons had gotten used to.

“Yeah, and they’ll be eating quality game in a second, where d’you think it comes from? The meat fairy?” - you bite out, with no real malice - but some audible exasperation. Luther had taken to calling you _birdy,_ as he found you quite flighty at times, often jumping at an chance he gave you to get out of the tavern and further your understanding of the area, and of all the hunts you seemed to go on, you were always able to bring back birds over anything land bound. He wasn't complaining per se - that meant days where Warner would usually come back with nothing were less and less, because you were a much better shot at flying targets than he ever was, though he finds stalking land prey a lot more natural, when together? Well, the pair of you just _worked -_ and soldiers began pouring more into the bar when it became apparent you sold meaty meals as well as the standard fare of weak vegetable broths and soups.

"Heya Birdy!" someone calls - you vaguely recognise it was someone called Kieran, a member of the Garrison who always went out of his way to say hello to you specifically, as he greatly enjoyed the fact you were willing to listen to him talk about anything and everything. Indeed, your position at least made talking to soldiers easier, granted, you didn't _recognise_ any of them as people of name or note in your understanding of what was supposed to happen, but so far you're uncertain of just how much of it would even abide by what you knew was a certainty at least in _your_ reality. So, you were taking everything cautiously, and slowly, for now.

"Evening Kier! Give us a minute will you? I need to string up these unfortunates to dry and get changed, apparently I'm stinky and look scary," you say with an exaggerated sort of pout. "But I for one think I look great, blood aside these riding breeches put the _ass_ in fan- _tass-_ tic," you turn to give a good side profile view, thigh facing Kieran's as you give the closest buttock a playful smack, earning a smatter of awkward blushes from some of the newer patrons who weren't quite, well, _used_ to you, but in a world as utterly bleak and devoid of entertainment as this, you found humour wherever you could, even if it meant coming across as vulgar to these stuffy quasi-1800s civilians. 

That, and it wasn't far off the banter you'd have back when you'd worked in a bar to supplement your income during university, all in all, working at Warmaidens actually felt _natural,_ and keeping hold of that was important to you.

That, and it's really not your fault whoever invented jodhpurs discovered something that induced an _admirable thickness._

"Agreed, your rump is _quite_ fantastic," Kieran agreed sagely, a cheeky smile etched onto his face "-always brightens my day anyway," - earning a snort from you.

"What's it like to live without shame?" Luther snaps, though absent of any malice in his tone, there's more of a sarcastic bent to his tone, witnessing the exchange with most of the bar patrons with a vaguely amused expression on his face - and showing that the pair of you do, in fact, get on quite well, and that the discourse was entirely playful, you maturely follow up his words by promptly sticking your tongue out at him, earning an eyeroll from the old man.

"Liberating! You should try it!" you grin, and make some more idle chatter before disappearing off to get changed and hang the birds. There's a lot of random trivia and knowledge just from your old life that you found greatly improved the circumstances around you, which was one way to get through the day without internet or otherwise drowning your thoughts in the overall hopelessness of the situation. The skills you had gained from moving out and not wanting to eat microwaveable meals for the entirety of your time in university had given you some decent skills in the kitchen, and so very quickly, the meagre supplies began getting stretched as much as possible. The kitchen is now a slew of homemade mechanisms, cutting costs by manually pressing vegetable and plant oils, animal bones are carefully boiled and pressed for every last morsel of flavour so Warmaidens can feed the less well off patrons with something that at least _tastes_ meaty and hopefully imparts some direly needed nutritional value from marrow. 

You were trying to grab satisfaction and distraction where you could, and both men were somewhat clumsy and rather basic in the kitchen since the loss of Luther's wife, Greta, so the apparent woman's touch was going a long way to restoring a warmth that Warmaidens - formerly the Nag's Head - had felt was lost over time. Dishes were no longer overdone with salt to make up for a lack of flavour, and you're quickly able to justify trading off supplies in the root cellar for thyme, coriander, parsley and whatever few herbs you found were actually grown here. Unfortunately, with Luther serving drinks, it's just you in the kitchen, so you're quick to shed your dirty boots and shirt in favour of one of Warner's white polos, pulled taught around your chest and shoulders from how much more slight and narrow the man is. 

That, and your battered slip-ons were a sign you really, really needed to get Frankie to pay you more - and wonder narrowly how people seriously managed to survive long term like this - because if not for Luther, your modern-world-coddled-ass would have died without anybody knowing, or caring. Of that, you have no doubts.

It's a hellishly busy evening, like most of your evenings now, but you're thankful that the hard labour distracts you from the aching thoughts of not being able to get back, and missing your creature comforts. It sort of reminded you of camping, except without the jovial presence of your friends from university. It's now, though, that you're extremely thankful for the skills you gained outside of pampered modernity, as you were trying not to look useless to the people kindly giving you a room and food. There's a large boiling pot of split pea soup which the place was becoming known for - and a separate boiling pot creating meaty bone broth and vegetable stock. The slivers of potato left are fried in a light sheen of plant oil and every time the door swings open with Luther checking and collecting orders, it wafts out into the main bar, coating the tavern in a homely, warming, delicious air.

"Okay lovers!" you come out, back foot keeping the door open behind you as you're leaned forward in an awkward pose, holding the door open for Luther who has armfuls of food and has taken a moment to help serve tables now the bar had calmed down. "I'm taking last orders now! It's just me cooking so kitchens closing an hour early tonight!" you sucked in another breath and shouted a little louder so the rest of the patrons in the back hear, placing all the meals on your tray to those that had ordered the split pea soup, winking a little at Kieran and his group of friends who were now - well - staring at your ass, though more in a morbidly curious way than much in the way of general perversion. You've a habit of referring to people the way you do back in your own hometown, where the term _my lover_ is quite casual, or _my duck,_ and whilst it may have seemed odd at first, the odd twang of your accent made most assume you're from some small unknown hamlet where such a thing is perfectly accepted, so nobody questions it, and most smile benignly - some with a light flush in their cheeks.

_"LAST CALL FOR FOOD ORDERS!"_ you holler, louder now - breezing past different tables, nodding in acknowledgement to various members of the Garrison who raise a drink as you pass by in acknowledgement, some of them smiling, others giving you empty glasses that you stack on the now empty food tray to bus back to the kitchens. 

Being that your literacy is... well, non-existent, and the strange not-quite-kana the Eldians use is utterly beyond you, you're having to memorise everything from scratch and potter from place to place, until you walk over to the crackling fireplace where there are two, rather tall figures with their hoods drawn up, clearly trying to reduce their visibility a bit, but trying to relax. Upon getting closer, you see the Wings of Freedom emblazoned on the back of their cloaks, and smile gingerly, picking up their empty glasses and asking if there's anything they wanted. They probably grabbed their drinks at the bar - and being squirrelled away over here, probably hadn't had a whip round from you, and thus may have been left out while you were going from customer to customer, saying your helloes and bantering in passing.

"Alright my lovers, anyone wanting a refill or food? Menus over there," thumbing over your back to a chalk board hung up visibly near the bar. You keep your jaunty tone, and freeze a little bit - like a deer caught in a trap when they turn their heads. It took all of one short, quick moment for it to sink in who they were.

_Hoo, boys. This was not the first impression I wanted to leave on the Survey Corps._

"Another beer for me, whatever he wants, and I'll take a plate of whatever you'd recommend, please," your breath catches in your throat - the hair, the inscrutable expression, bangs, moustache, beard, twitching nose and easy confidence was that of Miche Zacharias, one of the section commanders for what you vaguely remember as a large amount of soldiers, and one of the commander's most trusted men who predates even the acceptance of Levi Ackermann into the fold.

It's now that you regret how windswept you must look, self-consciously brushing a lock of hair back behind your ear and stacking the empty glasses just to fill the sudden awkwardness you felt with something else. 

"Make that two plates and a gin please, we've let time slip us by," the other presence - a man also, responds, but the voice is confidently strong, naturally authoritative, but impeccably polite. It's the kind of voice that, if loud enough, easily grabs the attention of every person in the room with little effort. The man turns his head, and all you can see are bright, distracting, sapphire-blue eyes, thick, vaguely familiar eyebrows drawn into a natural sort of frown, though his expression was a casual one - nonplussed - but noticing the way your eyes light up in recognition. You cannot smother it, either - these are perhaps some of the most recognisable men in the forces.

And they're the only ones you'd _recognised_ from your knowledge of the universe.

_you'regoingtobekilledbyatitan_

_you'regoingtobebetrayed_

_you'regoingtodie_

Your mind is completely stopping short of coherent thought, everything a hot, slushing mesh of thoughts slamming into one another that you cannot let fall out of your mouth. It sets in once more now that, the mortality of these people - these real people - is something you can effect, because they're _there,_ and sitting across from you - standing dumbly on the spot.

"Uh... glass or bottle?" you warble out, trying to jerk out of your thoughts.

_People are going to die._

_Where is Eren Yeager? Right now? At this point in time?_

_We're going to be besieged by titans._

"Bottle, miss," Miche replies, raising an eyebrow at you while you nod - trying not to look as gormless as you feel - your mind is reeling. You need the dates, you're desperately trying to piece together the timeline, and do - well, shit, you don't know what to do, but the people who could effect any sort of change were in front of you, right here, right now.

"Okay commanders," you reply, trying not to sound utterly hazy as you scarper back into the kitchens, carrying the glasses with you and moving meticulously over the different large cooking pots. Luther takes out the last portioned out orders of split pea and potato soups out, freeing you up to focus on the last orders of meat from those willing to splurge out a bit. You give away instantly that you had, in fact, recognised the men - and are deep in thought as you begin using more prepared bird from a hunt the day previous to begin slicing the body and separating the legs, head and neck to toss into the pile of bones and cooked skin that you would have simmer overnight for the meat and vegetable stew. 

_Why are they here?_

"Uh, Luther - quick question, the guys on table eleven - d'you know roughly when they got in? How long have they been there?" you ask out of curiosity, the odd question does raise a brow when the man blusters his way in, with empty plates and soup bowls with a shrug.

"Ah, couple of hours I think, with most of the Survey Corps rush, they had a training exercise I think, it's why there's so many, why?" Luther asks, whilst you shrug, cheeks colouring when the realisation sets in that they had been present for your loud, enthusiastic, blood and bird-guts covered exchange across the bar, and the uh - well, butt related banter you had made no secret of in an effort to draw laughs and good humour from the nearby tables.

_Yeah. That's not the impression to leave on Erwin Smith and Miche Zacharias, is it?_

"No reason," you smile tightly, and turn back to the hob, ignoring how Luther raises a brow at you as you begin meticulously pulling the gamey meat apart with two forks, but knowing better than to question it, lets you work diligently - helping by stopping vegetables from burning as you doused some small potato chunks in some herbs and began concentrating on the deep bowl of woodcock. It's a gamey bird, but not unpleasantly so, and filled most people who had it with an intense satisfaction that they were sampling something that was likely for a much higher income bracket, as the effect was achieved with very little of said bird - and you were a master of making a little go very far. You had the experience of a poor student to draw upon for that.

In a half hour you're finished, and are skilfully balancing both meals as Luther holds the door open. You make your way over to the table, and set it down between the two men, who halt their conversation to acknowledge your presence as you smile nervously at them both, ignoring the light sweat of your palms.

You catch the commander's eye, and feel your lungs constrict as you talk - because all you can think about, is _Trost -_ and everything you know is going to occur.

"There we go, two meat specials and those drinks you ordered," you smile, tightly, observing the appreciative glance Miche gives as he looks down at the bowl. Both men are handed a large plate stacked with neatly sautéed and fried herby vegetables, with a smaller, but sizeably deep bowl atop it, filled with a warm, steamy broth of gravy-brown meat stock that had neatly diced cuts of fried potato swimming in it, a light spray of coriander, and shredded, pulled bird meat that comes to the surface with every swirl of the spoon inside - showing that there is, in fact, actual meat in it.

Considering the fact the nation was still coming out of more austere times, it was a little impressive.

You pop the cap to Miche's beer with the hunting knife you'd still had equipped to your person, and pour Erwin's gin, leaving the bottle and quickly counting out change as Miche attempts to pay, and gesture vaguely to the discount sign - as though you cannot read it, you're intimately familiar with the contents, having sat down with Luther and Warner to set it up.

"Army discount, and I'm just going ahead and apply the Expedition Discount, that's just for Survey Corps, but we don't get enough of you drinking here to use it much so," you shrug, trailing off, grinning - even though your insides felt like they were on fire.

_Chill. If you start doom-mongering you'll just look crazy, and if it comes true, that might get me poked and prodded under suspicion at the very least._

_Just, make a good impression, and think about it later. I can confirm, at least, that the characters I know about actually do exist here, now we just need to see if the future plays out the way I know it to. To that end, is it even possible_ for _me to change the outcome, assuming it's destined to happen that way?_

_Maybe. I mean, it's not like I'm supposed to be here, right?_

"Expedition discount?" Erwin addresses you with a raised brow, and you resist the urge to seem visibly flustered - since this had been your idea, Garrison members are easy enough to access but implementation of an expedition discount was what you brought to the table to make use of the scouts when they'd pass through on their way to the specific exit point they use for venturing beyond the walls currently.

"Well," you scratch the back of your neck sheepishly, pitching this to Luther was a lot easier than justifying it to actual members of the corps, so you did your best not to sound patronising, because the known fact is this - that the scouts are the most underfunded, high risk, low reward branch of the military, and such a discount would actually encourage soldiers to spend some coin there.

"We take care of all members of the forces here, bossman used to serve in the Garrison y'know - had some friends in the scouts in his day too. The way we see it is this, you guys ride through here a lot for your training runs and your expeditions, and more than every branch, do the most high risk, low reward stuff - and - without you, well, no one would have any hope of ever getting back all we've lost," the culling is a touchy subject, but you speak as freely as you can, because if the corps didn't exist - well, everybody would except every loss ceded to titans as not only an inevitability, but something that was permanent. "There's less of it now, after the... well, you know. The losses trying to get back Wall Maria, but if we didn't have you, we'd have to accept every time we lose to titans that, that's all we've got," you smile weakly at their unreadable expressions, but see Miche visibly softening his expression towards you. It's now you realise you forgot to take your apron off, and are nervously kneading the hem of it, now painfully aware of the food splashes on it as you'd been cooking and butchering. Embarrassing. 

"And no one wants that, and we know how hard you're all fighting and sacrificing for us, for very little reward. So...If we can get you out of the cold, and keep you warm and fed, well, it isn't much, but it's the least you deserve. So, after you guys go out beyond the walls, everything is half off for about two or so weeks, more if we can afford to do it. Same for Survey Corps families, we try to take care of them if they come in and need help if there's any," you pause, faltering, trying to find an elegant way to put it but just grimace a little, looking a bit sheepish again "-injuries, or um, loss. We want you guys to feel like family, and family takes care of each other so...." you tilt your head a bit with a little watery smile and hand Miche half of his money back.

"Please let us take care of you and call us if you need anything!" you bow your head and prepare to make a swift exit. 

It's now that Erwin's expression slowly mirrors Miche's, he glances at the man and nods his thanks, a very small, very seldom-seen sort of smile etching onto his face, barely perceptible really, but it's enough to get you feeling a little frazzled - as everything you know about him, and it's quite a bit - assuming history is as you understand it, you know just a bit too much about the man's past to feel particularly honest in how you're treating him, but that seedy undercurrent feeling of spiritual dishonesty was prevalent pretty much since you got here, and realised you'd be lying, or tweaking the truth a lot just to pass by without suspicion here.

"That's very sweet of you, Miss....? We appreciate it," his words, whilst generically placating, were delivered with a real sort of warmth, you think, because the man is effortlessly charming in how he talks - and retains the abilities of a skilled orator, knowing certainly when to turn it on and off, it seems.

You consider giving him your name - but - in truth, it felt more and more natural to shed it since you got here, after all, if you go back home, would they forget you? Or would your real name be blended into the history of a place you didn't belong? It just complicated things, you found. 

"My friends call me Birdy," you grin, because it's familiar, and it's warm - and you hope your smile is carrying all the way up to your eyes because in truth, you're in part relieved by their presence because it is, at the very least, familiar - and is one of the first familiar things you'd encountered since coming to this accursed place.

Erwin opens his mouth to say something, but you jump out of your skin - embarrassingly - with a surprised squeak when you hear yourself being called with a thundering, bellowing force.

**"BIRDY! LITTLE HELP IN THE KITCHEN PLEASE!"** it's unmistakably Luther, and you look over your shoulder to see a wisp of burning food smoke oozing from the top of the kitchen door and swear, loudly, and rather more vulgar than you meant to - especially in front of these two men.

"Shit! Sorry Sirs!" you blather whilst you turn your heel and peel away from the table, yelling as you do, ignoring the bursts of chuckles and playful laughter at the antics of you and the owner, which had become a source of entertainment for most patrons since you'd started working there.

_"DAMMIT, OLD MAN! WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT TOUCHING MY KITCHEN SETUP?"_

Miche cracks a more noticeable grin once you disappear out of sight, eyebrows shooting up after nursing his first spoonful of the meat dish - not one for being too casual with most, but Erwin is considered a friend, and vice versa - and he's certain the looks they exchanged with one another were on the same wavelength.

_This is delicious, and I can't say I've ever had such a warm reception for being a member of the Survey Corps in my entire military career,_ Miche mused.

"She's cute," he declares, getting a passive look from Commander Erwin, who takes a serving of his own, and is pleasantly surprised by just how very good it is, and feels almost bad for not having to pay full price for what is - honestly - better than some of the lavish meals he'd been rarely afforded by nobles up in the capital. 

"Quite," he agrees, not getting into it too much but surprising Miche with his easy acquiesce to his observation, but unsurprisingly, is quick to move on "-now, lets run through the recruitment drive dossier one more time."

He almost wants to tell Erwin to stop, and be human for a minute - but thinks the better of it, though the pair seem to make a silent choice - that this would, in fact, be a regular rendezvous point - it only made _sense,_ after all, the staff were extremely accommodating, they seek to specifically take care of perhaps the least respected regiment out of the three, and are located strategically in terms of it being a waypoint on the horse caravans way to the expedition exit beyond the walls.

All you can think about, however - as you quickly stop Luther from destroying the kitchen with his well-meaning behaviour - is what you could possibly say to the commander before he goes.

You must _somehow_ keep a dialogue with the man until you could figure out how to warn him or do _something_ to mitigate the impending horror.

Any reason would do.


	2. That Awful Sound

_Chapter Two_

**That Awful Sound**

The truth is, there’s nothing you could say to Erwin or Miche that wouldn’t immediately come across strangely. You thought about it - ached on it, even, but all you could do is try to leave a good impression. Whatever change you think you can effect - you need them to think your opinion matters, even if its just planting the seeds, any lofty goals were not going to be achieved in a single evening on a chance encounter.

You whisk around each table once the minor kitchen emergency was taken care of, stacking plates and cups high and bussing what you can, making idle conversation with different soldiers as you pass. Table eleven still has the discreet presence of the commanders, and it’s when you realise their plates are stacked neatly - ready for you to take, that you wander over.

“Ah, sorry, it’s been busy today so I didn’t get a chance to check on you two, was everything alright my lovers?” you ask about the food, and notice the way Miche’s lips twitch at your familiarity, briefly flicking over to the commander, and then at you. He then helps you get a firm hold of all of the dishes, stacking bowls into each other, for which you flash a grateful smile. 

“The food was excellent, thank you,” surprisingly, it’s Erwin who responds, and you got the sense from all you knew of him, and how he presents in general that he’s not one to give meaningless compliments, so you cannot help but take the compliment personally - the kitchens had much improved since you were at the helm of it. “-when are your opening times?” Erwin follows up with this, surprising you again, but inducing a somewhat giddy sense of relief in your gut.

_Good, maybe this means I’ll see them again. I need to._

“Mm, twelve midday until three in the morning, every day except Thursdays so we can restock, but as we’re also a tavern, if you’re in need of a place to stay any day of the week, if the doors unlocked, just come in and ring the bar bell and someone will check you in. I guess we never really shut,” you chuckle - but some tiredness shows through when you do - because in truth, you’d never worked a job that was essentially twenty-four hours, but you were intensely grateful for it. “-and I think, if you just need a space to rest or work, well,” you trail off, _don’t put them off by being too eager -_ “-I think we can make an exception or two for you, the kitchen and bar may not always be open, but you’re always welcome here,” you hope that doesn’t sound too saccharine or suspect, but Erwin meets your words with a small smile.

“You may be seeing us more often then, have a pleasant evening,” he pauses, as though mulling the next word over on his tongue, “-Birdy.” It seems so informal that it sounds almost wrong coming from his mouth, but it’s pleasant all the same, earning a bright flush in your cheeks as both acknowledge you on their way out.

You count that as a victory, because with their military standing, you assume they’re probably very hard to get hold of otherwise, and enthusiastically - perhaps overly so - wave to them as they leave.

“Until we meet again!” you say, cheerfully - which had become the go-to for you, and Warner. The efforts to rebrand Warmaidens as a warm sort of place had changed. When the door swung open - if it wasn’t too busy - they’d be greeted with a cheerful shout on entry or at the bar. _Welcome to Warmaidens, come out of the cold and let us take care of you! Welcome to Warmaidens, we’ll be right with you._

And every exit was a gentle one, full of promise that the tavern would be warmly waiting for them, and that an exit wasn’t a goodbye, just an assurance that you’d see them again soon. It doesn’t seem like much, but it seemed to give a lot of patrons a more pleasant disposition, and more repeat visits. It seemed you had a very specific vision for how you wanted the bar to be, after discussing with Luther, and realising that your previous ideas had worked, he was rather open to it. The bar was something of a dive, with stained wood and dark, moody lighting, with hard chairs and small tables.

You would spend some of your meagre wages from Frankie’s on little odds and ends for the business, surprising the Brauns with small creature comforts. The next day, the bar is littered with small cushions for the hard seating, and an abundance of winter blankets for the few rooms the tavern has spare, which you had laid out in the small hours.

“Warner, I’m going off with Frankie past the clearing, those bear rumours are flying around again so we’re gonna ride out and see what we can see. Whoever nails it gets the bigger split, I’ll head back before rush so you’re not on your own, alright?”

It shows that Warner has taught you well enough that you feel confident to hunt big game, and he’d taken care of the ammunition issue discreetly one night and restocked once you brought up the low shell count. You’d changed a lot since you’d gotten here, all of your hardier traits had become amplified by an order of magnitude and the confidence you’d gotten with the old, flintlock rifles had really helped you feel more independent - and safe. They’re a far cry from the kinds you’d preferred to use for skeet shooting back home but, you took to them like ducks to water.

There was some fear - naturally, because you’d only ever seen bears in zoos, and you’d never even tasted one before, but Frankie was willing to loan his horse if he could come with you as a hunting party, which had you feeling braver. These people - you had to remind yourself, were _starving,_ for longer than you had been, and you were now in a position to keep them fed, warm and looked after - particularly the soldiers who probably needed it the most, but got it the least, from your understanding of the world, and general opinions from Kieran and his Garrison friends. It’s why you would hunt so often, and for so long.

For a moment, it seemed like this world almost acknowledged you’re not meant to be in it, as everything just seemed to respond to you in ways you doubt would have to natives of the land. Fate put you in the path of the corps despite not being anywhere near the period for recruitment in the army. Every hunt felt peppered with just a little extra luck, however grisly it was - and for a while, you wonder if you can even die in this place - but being so close to the cusp of death, you decide not to tempt it.

However, when you slaughter the mythical bear of the Falkshein forest, you feel beyond mortal, and swinging the door open of the tavern, you give a piercing whistle across the bar floor.

Soldiers who recognise you raise their cups, some wave, and others just turn to stare at you quizzically.

“I need a few strapping young bucks to help me get this game in!” you grin, getting a victorious hoot from Warner, whose behind the bar with Luther and smiling proudly.

“Good heavens, how big is bird?” one of the regulars who sees you bringing in woodcocks often exclaims.

“Bird? Try a _bloody bear!”_ you shriek victoriously.

_“A bear!”_

_“She got the bear?”_

“A **_**FUCKING**_** _!_ Bear!” you yell back, with emphasis, earning a head shake from Luther and a chorus of soldiers enthusiastically banging their fists against the hardwood surface, accompanied by loud, unyielding, piercing hollers and shouts. The bar is typically filled to capacity with mostly Garrison members, but there’s a few more Survey Corps than you’d usually see, along with the two, tall, shrouded figures at table eleven you’d come to associate with the quiet, discreet presence of the commanders.

The air of camaraderie is thick, and genuinely overjoyed, because game that big isn’t easy to come by, with a lot of animals hunted to rarity and hiding over the course of the famine. Hunting is, however, still something of a necessity, with the loss of so much agricultural land to Wall Maria’s fall.

Kieran and another member of the Garrison - someone you vaguely recognise by name when they introduce themselves as Mitabi - because that’s _familiar -_ assist with the carcass out back and bring it through to the large butchering space adjacent to the kitchens via the side entrance and it’s now that Section Commander Miche and Commander Erwin are able to quietly admire what’s being built at Warmaidens.

It’s a soft place to fall, ultimately - even with the rowdiness and drunken antics, it’s the little things - the way you try to make everybody feel like you’re genuinely happy to see them. When someone enters in later - soaked through with rain, you pull up a chair closer, but a little distance from table eleven by the roaring open hearth and bring over both a towel and a light throw blanket you’d purchased for the tavern rooms during winter.

“Tch, do all soldiers get this special treatment?” the man asks, though he’s grateful - and it’s now you take note of the Military Police logo on his uniform. You cannot say they’re your favourite branch, particularly - especially knowing they’re the centre of corruption and regularly take a too-generous tax from small businesses to fund their more deplorable habits.

“Yes sir-ee!” you smile, watching as he dabs his fluffy, brown hair off to dry and hands you back the towel. Casually you sling it over your left shoulder, and then surprise him by dropping the warm throw towel around his shoulders once he removes his uniform jacket and places it closer to the hearth to dry. “Welcome to Warmaidens my lover, we’re your home away home if you want us to be, lets take care of you and sate that appetite yeah? We’ve got rooms, food and booze,” you beam, still clearly on the high from your bear slaying.

“You had me at booze, but that soup doesn’t look too bad,” he gestures at the board - and you’ve learned the one he’s pointing at is the leek and potato soup, even though you cannot read it. He cocks a brow at your chosen term of endearment, but doesn’t bristle.

“Oh, good choice, you want that served with bread?” you tilt your head with a little wink “I baked it myself~! So you know it’s good,” and truth be told, there’s nothing better than the smell of freshly baked bread, you’d started the dough before you left and had Warner watching it and putting it through the oven. The uptick in homemade goods seemed to improve the meagre supplies and make it easier to barter for flour and occasional splurges like blankets, cushioning, more oil lamps and some new menu items.

“Go on then,” he agrees, lips twitching into a smile “-you sure know how to spoil a man,” reclining back, he folds one leg over the other and exudes a casually lazy gait as he tightens the throw around himself.

Luther pulls a small end table over so he has somewhere to eat that’s closer to the hearth, as the man has arrived alone.

“Anything else?” you call back over your shoulder as you had turned to leave, but realise he hadn’t placed a drinks order.

“A whiskey and your name - I’m Dennis, Dennis Aiblinger,”

“Mm, I’m gonna have to check your military identification Mister, ‘cause I think you might be a fresh faced little fifteen year old graduate that I’m not allowed to sell to yet,” there’s an undercurrent of teasing in your tone - the man has something of a baby-face. In truth, you don’t know if he can take a joke, but leading the conversation jovially tends to work in your favour - because the people here are much too serious, and the air is always hefty, and troubled.

“Are you serious?” he scoffs, a vague note of irritation in his tone until he sees the glitter of mischief in your eyes.

“Oh, deadly serious, sir! I wouldn’t want any Military Police arresting me for flouting the laws,” you blink at him innocently, and get a hoarse chuckle and eyeroll when it becomes apparent that this is banter, and that he’s just a little irritable from his horse ride in the rain.

He hands you over a scuffed, yellowed military ID card - which typically you cannot read, but you were taught what each of the values was meant to be from Warner, and could see the most important - the number, which you can, mercifully, still read. He’s in his late twenties, despite the stubble lined baby-face, and has sharp cheekbones and voluminous brunet hair that reminds you vaguely of boy-band cuts.

“Oh, it’s your birthday today? Happy Birthday Officer Aiblinger!” you practically coo, handing it back to him and seeing the faint flush on his cheeks tells you that you’ve gotten him in a weak spot. “What brings you to these parts on such a special day? Business or pleasure?”.

“Business,” he says, grimly, “-they shipped me over from Stohess to check out the rumours - about drugs passing through these parts from the farmlands,” you’re surprised by how blunt he is, but to be honest, you didn’t expect this sort of world to be riddled with this kind of problem. Titans always seemed like a much more ever present threat.

“The farmlands? I-- well, I suppose that’d be where the natural stuff comes from I suppose,” you concede, but struggle to think of some of the farmers you’d knew peddling drugs, even if Falkshein itself was a little shady at times.

“Anything ever pass through here?” Officer Dennis asks, more conversationally than seriously, as he doesn’t seem remotely enthused by his actual duty, just judging from how he talks about it.

“Officer Aiblinger! If any of that was ever going on under my nose, in _my house,_ I’d black and blue their hides and bar them myself!” you wrinkle your nose in distaste “-none of _that,”_ clicking your tongue in disapproval, hands landing firmly on your hips to punctuate the point, drawing a smile from the man. “-we don’t need to add drugs to the list of inebriated sins committed in this tavern, thank you very much,” - getting the man to hold his hands up in surrender - peeping from the throw blanket to do so.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt - doesn’t hurt to ask though, - and if you ever hear anything, just give the MPs a shout, would you?” he then stretches with a yawn, jaw cracking a bit as he does. “-Not tonight if you can help it though, it was a long, wet, _miserable_ ride from Stohess,” he punctuates it with a bitterness.

“Never mind all that now, eh? Just get your feet up, your food will be out shortly,” you smile, and leave, nodding briefly to Erwin and Miche as you walk by, whistling a jaunty tune as you do. It’s this that makes Erwin decide, very easily, that Warmaidens could be - and should be - a rest stop point where possible. Section Commander Miche sums it up best when breaking from the low, droll discussion about the recruitment drive plans that they have to engage in between recruitment cycles, it’s the backbone of the Corps at this point, considering how often they lose soldiers. The way you wrap warm throws around cold patrons when they come in and attempt to dry their clothes, constantly rushed off your feet but trying to find time to make them all feel special…

Section Commander Miche remarked - “It’s like she runs an emotional halfway house for this lot,” he says it when you set down Aiblingers food - beer on the house - and call him birthday boy in such a way that the lazy, irritable MP manages to grin, once he finishes complaining about how much he hated getting there. You’re consistently patient, even with Luther and Warner pulling you from pillar to post between serving.

Soldiers leave feeling warm, buzzed, fed and sometimes years younger, with a laugh on their lips and a smile on their face. It’s not hard to figure out why Miche and Erwin end up in there often, even when the bar is closed, just to talk through paperwork or even host occasional meetings.

It doesn’t feel _right,_ to go a day in the Falkshein area without a warm - if harried - _hello m’lovers_ directed at them both. You wouldn’t bother them too much - despite the overwhelming temptation to do so, but you’d wander over before you left to hunt, or go over to Franklin’s stables. Often times they’d raise a glass to you in passing, or find a moment to ask how your day is, before you’d head out, often with your hunting rifle on your back, and riding boots on. Each time, your heart would skip a beat, feeling like you knew their futures, and didn’t know how to broach it.

But each day, both men felt a little more real to you, just the way Luther and Warner did - and less like abstract concepts or just entertainment.

“Quiet day, little bird?” it’s Section Commander Miche who’d taken to calling you that, after hearing it from some of the others. It rubs off easily enough on Erwin too, given the chance.

“Mm, cash out, restock, deliveries, no hunting - even I need a break and Frankie’s sick of my ugly mug bothering him every other day,”

Miche, though just as serious as his superior, cracks a small grin - but it’s Erwin that replies to you.

“I doubt that,” - he’s gotten a little more at ease, a little more used to you being ever present, and the access to a quiet, warm table to work with his section commanders was very much appreciated. It provides a secondary location away from their more active headquarters, and you have to wonder if by the time an expedition rolls around, if all of the rebranding would result in any of the Special Operations squad coming in, but they had yet to do so.

It’s the fact this Thursday is a quiet one that makes the next Thursday feel that much more tragic, and purposeful - like someone was waiting for the perfect opportunity. A day where there wasn’t soldiers in, no commanders, and no Luther - as he’s gone over to Franklin’s to negotiate a deal in the Horsefair.

It’s a grim, unwanted reminder that this world is unforgiving, and often needlessly cruel. You are so preoccupied by your thoughts of what was to come, and when the tragedy of Trost would come upon the world, that the idea of something bad just _happening_ wasn’t something you factored in as much.

You had a nice, predictable, protected little bubble in Warmaidens, and you got a sense of peace equilibrium from the humdrum of mucking stables out for hours, and waiting deep in the brush for wild game. The days were so filled up that you were using it all to fill up the space in your head and your heart that missed the familiarity of home, friends, and creature comforts.

So when this fragile bubble of safety and peace bursts, it feels like somebody has reached inside of you, and pulled your soul out through your spine, leaving you a wreck on the ground.

_Why, why did this…? Have to happen…?_

_I….can’t…._

It’s the _why_ that you just cannot abide, you cannot swallow the nonsensical nature of what had taken place. Yes, Falkshein had its share of disreputable characters - if Hamburg isn’t evidence enough of that, and the fact an MP had to be transported all the way from Stohess to oversee a drugs investigation, but Warmaidens felt like a little bit of glazed gold since its rebranding - a safe little soldier haven, not to be soiled.

It all happens so fast, you can barely make sense of it, and in truth, it feels like your mind is operating in the slowest function possible, picking and choosing what it can stomach and processing it as painstakingly as possible.

The doors had swung open while you and Warner were cashing out and about to move the pubs earnings to a safe vault, which had been a little investment now that business was picking up considerably. Four men came in, dressed to the hilt in darks, one of which had a long rifle out, the others with blades of varying lengths, and long pieces of wood with nails hanging out to smash various bits of the furnishing on their way in.

You couldn’t even react as fast as Warner had, to pull him down behind the bar, because he bounds forward with such foolhardy strength that you can only scream when he’s sent sprawling to the ground, grasping at his neck.

**_**“Drop everythin’ into fuckin’ the bag! Hands where I can see ‘em - if I see you reaching under the bar I’ll blow yer damn head off! DROP IT!”**_** was the only thing that seemed to pierce the sound barrier in your mind, because your eyes are wide and frozen on Warner, heart pounding.

**__ **

It isn’t like the movies. It isn’t like television - there’s a _lot_ of blood, more than you thought could reasonably come out of somebody’s neck - but the large, muscular man on the left had so effortlessly glided a thick, serrated hunter’s blade across his throat that some sort of deranged, terrifyingly cold, ancient survival instinct kicks in, breaking your frozen, horrified thoughts with a frosty bluntness.

_They know the cash register is locked or I’d be dead by now. They know Luther isn’t here. They’ve slit Warner’s throat because they don’t want any witnesses._

_If I can even die here, I might just die in this moment, there’s no way they’re not going to try and kill me. They know there’s a gun underneath the bar. They’re familiar with this place._

**_**“I SAID DROP EVERYTHING IN THE FUCKING BAG!”**_** you flinch at the severity of the man’s tone - it’s the one with the rifle speaking, but he has it lazily held over one shoulder, not aiming at you because he’s confident in his overwhelming presence and that no one else is around - and they’re right. You can see your eyes prickling with warm, anxiety-ridden tears, but that cold, calculating survival voice inside of you keeps your shaking form in check. You walk slowly towards the register, hands held up in surrender to show you’re not going anywhere near the gun under the counter, eyes never leaving the four assailants stare and resisting the urge to look over at Warner, whose strangled, desperate gasps for life are choking the silence out of the atmosphere.

_They’re familiar, but not regulars, or they’d know there’s a gun above the bar too._

It clicks in a horrible, disgusting moment of clarity.

_I’m not leaving this encounter alive - so it’s now or never._

With one hand towards the till, motioning to open it, your right quickly smacks against the top of the bar with a thunderous clap, something you did regularly to have the long, classic, fully-loaded military-issue Ruhtger bounce out of the small, pathetically weak and rusted latches so that it drops down from the ceiling and into your waiting right arm.

You don’t miss a beat - you cannot afford to, and the biting - cold - words spilling out of your numb, quivering lips before you can stop it - like a loud, embittered snarl right from the pit of your diaphragm.

“Drop this!” - your speed, your precision - and your unwavering form takes every advantage, right down to the fact you have a lined up aim before the assailant with the rifle can line a shot up himself. It’s like a quick-draw sort of battle that in reality, you shouldn’t have - wouldn’t have - won, if not for the fact you had the element of surprise, and an unbridled fury to survive.

It barely registers that there’s a large, caved hole in the man’s forehead until his body finally gives way to gravity, as though latently realising it’s been pierced clean through, and with equal speed, two more rounds are fired - hitting another of the men similarly - though directly in his left eye, rather than his forehead, forcing the remaining two to quickly cut their losses. One seemed like they debated taking their leader’s rifle from the pool of spreading blood on the ground but realises swiftly that you’d sooner kill him where he stands than let any of them even line up a shot let alone land one.

You think you get one of them in the arm - because there’s a spray of blood, and a blood-curdling scream, but as soon as the surviving robbers leave, wooden door swinging wildly from the hinges from the force of their exit, all you so is bowleggedly make your way over to Warner.

The Ruhtger is crudely dropped on the floor and kicked away from you a little when your shaking knees overcome you, causing you to go sprawling in the mounting puddle of blood that was seeping through the old, well-worn wood log floor, dying it a sinful shade of darker, moistened ground and lacing the air with a rotten copper aroma.

“Warner!” he’s still alive - but barely, and you take the pressure off of his trembling body by placing your hand over his neck, trying vainly to stem the flow of blood.

_How deep is this cut…?_

There’s blood all around his lips, through the spaces between his teeth and all the way down his chin and neck, staining his soft, white collar. You feel the blood burbling under his throat and erupting under the flat of your palm and oozing down either side of his neck into two more puddles on the ground.

“Oh - God - Warner!” you barely recognise your own voice, you’re choking - it’s all too real - right down to the mortal panic and naked fear in the wilds of his pale green eyes. You can feel the struggle of his heartbeat against his fingers because you even push your fingers into the thick, slit of his neck, finding what you assume is a meaty bit of viscera that had been the source of the blood, and do your best to stifle it.

It seems to work, even if your hands and fingertips are now slicked with blood and flesh caking up under your fingernails.

You try to tell yourself it’s just like the hunt, like squeezing blood out of a bird, except this time, you’re desperately pushing it in, holding it back, praying it’ll clot shut or something. Right now, it looks like Warner might choke to death on his own blood.

“W-Warner - don’t - stop - someone **_HELP!_** ” your screams blanch the walls of the tavern _ **"Help! Help! Someone help me, please! Anybody!"**_

No one comes.

You feel yourself shaking with tears, because you don’t know what to do - and you think Warner might be telling you to let go - the way he used to when you first had to field dress a bird and cried, wanting it to be over.

“Nn - no, no! No. No - I c-can’t do this, I can’t - “ when you let go, and pull your fingers back, that really will end it.

To be honest, though, people rarely survive a cut that deep in the throat even in your own world, and your own time - unless you had titan serum, there was nothing short of a miracle that could put a stop to this.

You cry regardless. It’s too real. Why didn’t you shoot them before Warner bounded over to play hero?

“-I can’t do this on my own,” you choke miserably as he stops sputtering - you think he might be dead despite your efforts to stop up the blood flow. “I can’t handle it - “ your voice shatters like a thousand dropped glasses.

You hear the door open, but you’re too busy holding Warner to look up, your voice reduced to a mewling, agonised warble that made you sound every inch the child you once were. “-I-I’m not a real hunter! I-- I need you here!” 

Warner isn’t moving, and his eyes are still, and glassy - pupils no longer focused, his chest - giving a slow, final decompression.

“I don’t belong here without--- oh God, Warner. Please…!”

The tears keep falling until you can’t even see the man in your arms, you’re caked in blood from fingertips to elbow, and all over your knees from the puddles you’d crawled through of the men you’d shot.

“Please wake up.”

When he doesn’t, you feel yourself dryheave, and a pair of soft, strong, masculine arms settling around your shoulders, and a deep, gravelly voice washing over you.

“Let go, little bird.”

You continue to cry, unable to move, even as a cloth is draped over Warner’s frozen expression of wild-eyed fear and agony.

“Let go….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( A/N: SO this.... tragic turn of events is a vehicle towards the overall plot, but goddamn I am cruel. Dw, though. Commander Handsome x Reader is still the endgoal, I just like making a halfway decent ride to get there cos I'm incapable of writing oneshots....))


	3. The First Day of Forever

_Chapter Three_

**The First Day of Forever**

You can feel Luther wrapped around you, dragging you up to your feet and uncaring of the blood that was rubbing off on his clothes. All you can hear is the echo of the gunshots in your own ears from firing in such an enclosed space, and blindly lean into his warmth, feeling a large hand gently patting down your hair - the way one might comfort a small child, because you must look a state. He must surely be feeling horrific, standing over the body of his grandson, but he had heard and seen enough to quickly decide on his reaction. Looking down causes an ache in his chest - but right now, you’re alive, and your lip is quivering, your eyelashes are wet and tears were streaming down both cheeks until they joined under your chin, forming a large puddle of wetness along your shirt collar.

Luther can barely stand to look at you like that, because you seem more broken than the day he’d first scooped you out of the gutter. He can see the crestfallen look in your eyes and your childlike cries had pierced through everybody present like a lance. Your body jerks slightly with every little muted hiccup, because you are, at this point, just bawling your eyes out. It feels shitty, because you should be comforting _him,_ but the man is having none of it. He must be hurting, but he cradles you instead - looking over the top of your head to the presence of three other people who had gradually streamed in.

“I- ‘m scared,” you croak, - he’d never heard you sound so _small -_ even the day he’d found you, everything down to the crack in your tone destroyed the armour of the men in the room. It’s now, when you peel back from the security of Luther’s chest, you see the sources of the other footsteps and quiet mutters in the room. If you weren’t so caught up over Warner, you’d be more embarrassed, because you see two familiar heads of blond - Section Commander Miche, and Commander Erwin - who were likely coming in, as somewhat usual - despite it being the pub’s closed-bar day, for their casual meetings, as they had been doing regularly ever since you invited them to do so.

If you had the wherewithal to think about your long-game, you’d have been crushed by your own anxious thoughts about what they must think of you now, wondering how they might ever take you seriously - but it’s the furthest thing in your mind.

“I know, I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” you expect anger, abrasion, and _agony_ from Luther, who had already lost so much. He isn’t one to change his behaviour for the presence of others, so you know that this is genuine - he’s in his early sixties and at the point of not caring about what people around him think at any given point. Any other moment he’d have teased you, but he can see you’re in shock - you’re a hunter, a waitress, a cook, a friend - not a soldier, and not a killer, so all he can do is gently say sorry that he wasn’t there, and swallow his agony for his grandson for now, because he still has a sliver of something to hold onto - and that’s you.

_Poor thing,_ Miche muses - _she must have been terrified._ Both he and Erwin had exchanged silent glances and made quick work of the situation in a way that only soldiers would. Miche had fetched the closest MP he could find - only for another to hear - when he mentions _Warmaidens -_ and gets the attention of Senior Officer Aiblinger, who hasn’t left the area and was lazily playing cards a small distance from the outpost being used as a precinct for all the arrests in the shady areas of Falkshein.

“Hey,” it’s Senior Officer Dennis Aiblinger’s voice that calls your attention, he gets up from the puddle of spread blood that you had manage to track when you had crawled over to Warner, picking up the discarded Ruhtger rifle. There’s a thoughtful look in his tan eyes, but he seems surprisingly disaffected by the scene in front of him, easily stepping over the bodies of the assailants you had manage to shoot and side-step more of the blood.

“Of’ser - “ is all you manage to warble out, barely able to get the syllables out between your teary hiccups.

Officer Aiblinger actually grimaces at that, but you see his brows draw into a gentle sort of expression.

“I can guess what happened here, but I’m going to need you to explain it to me, alright?” he scratches his stubbly cheek and calmly holds the weapon to his side, glancing between you both, and then to the senior scouts behind him. Commander Erwin outranked him, certainly, and Dennis had attended the odd meeting where the man was a silent presence, but generally speaking, Military Police were the highest in the chain of command within the walls, so Officer Aiblinger behaves more carefully than he usually would.

“Yessir,” is all you manage, and it comes out so feebly that he actually sighs, and feels oddly guilty for having to even question you, but it’s a macabre scene, people are dead - and as lazy as Dennis is, he can’t _not_ follow through with the basics, especially with senior officers around, even if they are in another regiment.

“Uhm - I was closing up the register -a-and cashing - _hic -_ out - s-so I could get more stock. Then these f-four guys - came in. One had a gun, and the others all had knives - w-well - one had this big piece of wood with bloody nails in it. A-and started wrecking the bar and a-asking me to empty the register,” you shakily point to the smashed candelabras and glass not too far away, feeling the security of Luther’s hands on your shoulders as you force yourself to speak.

“W-Warner w-was closer to the - them, he was cleaning. He went to c-confront - I couldn’t - I wasn’t fast enough - and they just slit his throat before he cou-uld s-say anything!” this seemed to induce a fresh round of tears, because you felt so helpless behind the bar, and you started to tremble under Luther’s firm grip. “I wasn’t - _I wasn’t -_ I’m sorry - two of them got away - I should have - “

“Enough of that,” Luther’s natural boom is both reassuring as it is impatient, you feel him pull you back into his chest and completely miss the impatient glare on his tired, saddened features. Officer Dennis doesn’t _want_ to be the bad guy - but it feels that way when your hand bawls up fistfuls of Luther’s shirt, and you’re not looking at him any more.

“This is a classic army issue Ruhtger, is this what you used to defend yourself? Last question, I promise,” Officer Dennis wilts a bit under Luther’s expression - he can just tell the man had clearly served his time, and not only that, likely had years on him and was probably serving in the forces when Dennis was still a twinkle in his father’s eye - so with that in mind, and the death of Warner at their feet, he’s forgiving of the man’s glare and blunt attitude.

“Y-eah,” you hiccup against Luther’s chest. “-He - the one with the gun, said not to reach anywhere under the b-bar because that’s where most bartenders keep their rifle’s if they’re licensed. B-but he didn’t know we keep that one above the bar as well - c-cos I use it to hunt flying game. I had my hands up so he wouldn’t line up a shot and surprised them when I got to the register,” - you shudder a bit at what you’d done - it’s easy enough to explain, but phrasing how you managed to have cold, hard, survival logic during the incident made you feel less than human. Did normal people respond to these situations the way you did?

You don’t know.

“I thought - I mean they h-hurt Warner, they probably wouldn’t want witnesses, they were only keeping me alive long enough to unlock the register. I knew they’d probably kill me too, and I wanted - wanted to help him,” you turn miserably to look at Warner’s half-covered body, mute devastation on your features. “I shot the one with the gun and the person closest to him -- I got the one who h-hurt Warner in the arm, but he got away with the fourth man,”.

You hear Dennis inhale sharply when you squeak something miserable out, feeling equal parts horrific for even asking, but you feel Luther’s arms clench protectively around you when you do.

“Will I swing for this?” you’d killed two people, and murder was straight-up a gallows sentence, it’s where you’d learned the phrase from, but it’s Erwin - whom you forgot had been present, who speaks, silencing the room for a moment with his smooth, authoritative tone.

“No, you will not.”

He says it with such a firm confidence that Officer Dennis looks at him, then glances at Luther, then Miche, and then you - appearing to come to a decision.

“This might be a place of business but it is your home, you’d be protected under the Homestead Doctrine,” Erwin's glacial blue eyes look over at Officer Dennis, as though silently asking him a question - which, he answers - having caught onto it.

He surprises them by strapping the Ruhtger to his back, placing his hands on his hips for a moment, before letting out a long, tired sigh.

“I had a long night the last time I was here. I suppose it’s my fault for leaving _my weapon_ here - I don’t suppose you’d do me a favour Commander Erwin and not report this to my superior? I think enough damage has been done here without muddying the waters like that,” - when Erwin nods once, though his eyes are a little wider in surprise - along with Miche’s - Dennis turns his attentions to you.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he’s erasing the illegal weapons charge, because he knows it’d have to go in the report and the last thing he thinks you deserve is for this situation to become worse than it is, when you and the residents of Warmaidens are the clear victims in this.

You turn to him, and blink when you feel Dennis’s finger lifting your chin up to look in his eyes to ensure your understanding and attention.

To tell the truth, you don’t, you’re too upset to understand, and your comprehension is low at this point.

“Birdy, if anybody asks you about this, you shot them with the gun underneath the bar that Warmaidens is _licensed_ to own, because that’s what is going in my report. Do you understand?” he explains, with a surprising amount of patience as you hiccup gently against his finger and nod blearily.

“Yessir,” you don’t know why, but you don’t question it.

“And Commander Erwin is right - I think - I’m kind of hazy on my Homestead Doctrine, but I believe taverns count. So,” he says “-I’m going to get a coroner down here and have you come to the precinct and give details to a sketch artist for the other two guys. I’ll get a spread of MPs questioning locals, but someone will need to stay and talk to the coroner. Mister Braun, can I ask you to do that? The precinct is an hour away by horse,” Officer Dennis speaks - and Luther nods, but feels reluctant to let you go, eventually he does, but whispers in your ear for you to go with the men, not to be scared, and that if you’re uncertain of anything, to ask if you can wait for him or Frankie to come down.

You suppose Luther needs time with Warner’s body, to grieve, and do the necessities - but you still feel like you’re being ripped away from your safe place and your panicked agony shows on your face, prompting a response from Commander Erwin - again, surprisingly. Still, as cold as he is perceived, he isn’t totally absent of heart, it was difficult to look at the face of the woman who’d been taking care of him and Miche every other evening, crying their heart and soul out, covered in blood, and not feel any sort of responsibility.

“You won’t be unaccompanied,” Erwin speaks, glancing at Officer Aiblinger “-I’d like to come too if that’s alright. Miche - please go and organise a carriage, I believe some privacy is appropriate,” he then assists Aiblinger with the process of handling the situation, and cordoning off Warmaidens from the public.

Section Commander Miche raises a brow at Erwin on his way out, but doesn’t question it. It’s clear the commander has made some sort of silent decision, and all soldiers present were doing their best to do right by you.

Honestly? Your head hurts, your heart hurts, and everything is a blur of motion and voices when they get you onto the carriage. You didn’t even have the wherewithal to get changed, and it’s obvious you’re in a mixture of total grief and complete shock - so nobody asks it of you. You ride a quiet, private, intimately small carriage with Officer Aiblinger and Commander Erwin - as Section Commander Miche stays behind to assist Luther and the coroner to the best of his abilities.

Normally you’d be freaking out internally, at being so close to these people, but you’re completely glazed over, heavy head resting against the bumping carriage wall, as the wheels bumped on more country roads.

You’re not sure why Commander Erwin elected to come with you, with a bit more clarity, you realise that he and Miche probably stumbled in as part of their usual routine and walked in on the scene with you and Warner, just as Luther had, as they’d all come in together - and probably heard your wailing cries on their way over and bounded inside.

_If only they’d come sooner…_

“Give me your hands, please,” it’s Commander Erwin’s voice that breaks you out of your glazed, mournful reverie, earning a confused noise as you hold them over to him - as he’s sat directly across from you, next to Dennis, who observes quietly with a raised brow.

You blink when you feel something soft and warm eclipse them, and feel Erwin’s large hands swallowing yours through the thin material of a handkerchief, delicately rubbing it over the drying blood which hadn’t wiped itself on Luther’s clothes, and gently took a sweep around your wrists, and even got under your nails with as much professionalism and delicacy as someone cleaning an intimate place like that could.

It should have felt strange, but the gesture was a warm one that you desperately needed after being torn away from Luther. Dennis’s curious look erases itself when he sees tears threatening to pour down your cheeks again whilst Erwin gently cleans your hands.

“You’re in shock, that’s normal. We’re going to make sure this is over for you quickly. You are not in trouble.” His indomitable, unreadable blue eyes gaze at you unblinkingly, before turning to Dennis - to his left, and it seems to be the silent kick in the shin the MP needs to follow up.

“He’s right. You’re not in trouble, alright?” he gives you a thin smile but it doesn’t carry to his eyes, because if he had his way, you wouldn’t have had to go through something like this to begin with. Senior Military Police Officer Dennis Aiblinger might be a lazy good-for-nothing drunk, who had largely ascended ranks due to likeability and willingness to overlook the corruption of some of his peers, but he is not rotten to his core. Just the same, Commander Erwin - whilst emotionally unavailable to a fault, and even keeping his friends at some distance, he too, isn’t without feelings - he just seldom acts on them.

But Erwin Smith is a good man, and kindness is free. He saw the horror that tainted the warmth of Warmaidens and your childlike cries sounded… _familiar,_ and he’d grown up into the kind of person that could effect meaningful change. He was never one to sit by and simply not do so, just because it’d be easier.

And that is why he shows a rare, soft smile when you finally sniffle out a reply back to him and Dennis.

_“W-why - are you being - so nice to me? I don’t - understand - ”_

You clearly lacked the clarity of mind in the moment to explain what you didn’t understand about their actions, but both men seemed to register what you mean without you having to painstakingly hiccup through it.

“Something horrible happened today, neither of us think it needs to get any worse,” Dennis is surprised with himself - for finding the words to sum it up, because he’s horrible at comforting people, and crying women always put him at a loss, so this is a small victory for him. “Right- Commander?”

“Correct,” at this, Erwin balls the handkerchief into your shaky fingers and giving you what could be called a kindly look. He’s a sharp, cold sort of man, again, emotionally unavailable - and awkward in the sheer depth to his seriousness, but he was an orator - a skilled one. When he needed to, he could certainly dispense a natural charm, and now was one of those moments.

“Unfortunately the system isn’t the best, and Officer Aiblinger would agree, so we’ll get some sketches of your remaining assailants done and do our best to clean this up,” - and it’s now that it clicks with Dennis.

He considers himself slow on the mark, and Erwin has a famously formidable, brilliant mind, so he’s proud of himself for it even clicking, but it now makes a bit more sense as to why he’s accompanying you both.

“Ah. Now I get it. There’s two ways this can go - this goes to trial, even if it’s just to rule in favour, like the commander mentioned - there’s laws that protect you. Option two - is very technical, not one we reserve for civilians but we _can_ take you to military custody and forgo the court process if we get relevant approval, can I assume that’s your plan?” he looks at Erwin when he asks, and Erwin nods.

“Yes. I believe you’ve had to deal with enough, and I’d be more than happy to approve you for some community service hours assisting the Corps, this way, you don’t have to get approval from anybody else. But I’d rather give you the choice. Would you like to take this the normal route? Or clock in a few hours with the military?” Commander Erwin looks at you, and smiles again, and you can tell he’s trying to be good to you, but you’re still somewhat glazed over.

“W-whah - what happens t-to Luther, if I - go with you?” even in your haze, being plopped directly closer to the corps is probably what you _need_ if you want to act on any of the knowledge you have of the future, but your heart aches for the man you were quickly considering a guardian figure, even at your old age.

“I wouldn’t keep you too long, work as many hours as you’d like, it’d be for the paperwork mostly, so if this ever gets dragged up, nothing is amiss,” he tilts his head a little “-though I doubt it would anyway, there’s still a process and two men are dead, I believe you’ve gotten quite friendly with a lot of soldiers, they’d be glad of your presence, and it gives you the choice to not have to relive today in court. I know it’s a big choice, so you can think about it a while, we can delay the report filings for a few days at most,” - you’re slow to process his words, but give him a blown out, glassy stare, confusion and gratitude in your eyes.

“I - didn’t want to kill anybody!” you cry out softly, and get an understanding look from them both as your voice cracks a bit.

“I know, we know,” Dennis reassures, shooting the commander a sideways look, silently cursing Erwin for his bluntness - because he _had_ to bluntly summarise and emphasise the two men you’d killed, when you’re clearly no killer, and hadn’t been built for it the way soldiers were.

_I’m so bad at comforting women,_ Dennis groans internally, only for Erwin to realise that - he had induced the fresh wave of tears.

“This won’t take long, and then you can go back to Mister Braun, okay?” Officer Dennis adds, somewhat helplessly, because he’s inches away from just pleading at you gently to stop crying, because you just look like you’re in so much pain - and it feels awful not being able to do much to fix it.

It seems Erwin’s not very good at comforting women either, but he seems to say just the right thing regardless, because for the first time in hours, you give them both a watery smile.

“This’ll be over soon, we promise. Let us take care of you in the mean time, alright?” - and he speaks with a strange, broad warmth you aren’t used to hearing from him much, but it’s enough.

Without Luther’s big, strong arms and fatherly touch, it’s almost enough, you pull the clean part of his handkerchief to the tear tracks on your cheek, and finish with a hoarse whisper just as the precinct comes into view.

_“Thank you.”_


	4. The Wheels of Change

Chapter Four

The Wheels of Change

They make quick work of you, in truth, and it’s underwhelming how quickly everything is ready to return to a state of undisturbed peace. It was enough to make you feel sick to your stomach - and truth be told, you weren’t quite ready to face the world and it showed. Officer Aiblinger works more efficiently than Commander Erwin had ever known him to - whilst he isn’t familiar personally with many MPs outside of Nile Dok, he certainly had enough brushes with Aiblinger to get his measure of the man. He isn’t one to pull his weight much, if he can delegate his work -he will, but as deplorable as his work ethic is, he’s not morally bankrupt. It’s now that the commander is reckoning with the fact that Officer Aiblinger isn’t a terrible person.

“That’ll process over a few days, and give you enough time to…” Officer Aiblinger trails off awkwardly.

“Thank you,” it comes out hollow a second time, but Officer Aiblinger looks relieved at your easy acquiescence. The usual, charming, casually disruptive energy you would exude felt like it had been snuffed out like a candle on the breeze. Commander Erwin talks in hushed tones for a little while with Officer Aiblinger shortly after, and you leave together, parting only when he departs for the Survey Corps base.

Re-entering Warmaidens felt awkward, and troubling. The cracked glass from one of the windows was haphazardly covered with a bed sheet, and there’s some military police you don’t recognise outside. As purely destroyed as you may feel right now, all you can think of is Luther - and the grim sensation that washes over you when you realised how poorly mopped up the blood is. Clearly somebody had tried to clean it, but there’s a bucket near it with a now-pink dyed mop as the water became sullied with blood.

You have the overwhelming urge to find the man, but - you don’t want him to have to see this any more - because he’s still at the morgue, you realise. You can’t stand it either - and so, you find yourself on your knees, nose burning slightly along with the tips of your fingers through a pair of battered gloves. Your hands are clenched around a thick, abrasive sponge and rag, desperately scrubbing the blood out of the wood with a cleaner you purchased from a nearby market. It was costly, and reminded you vaguely of chlorine as your eyes ached and you scrubbed the finish out of the floor until the blood was now a bleached pale stain, your fingers - now dry and lightly blistered from the chemicals soaking through the gloves.

You tip the bucket of sullied water just as you hear the side entrance being used - and swallow thickly.

Luther cannot bare the sight of walking through the main bar floor - and whilst you can feel a physical exhaustion threatening to take over your body from just how much you’d cried, you need to check on him.

_I was just dropped here. This was his grandson. Warner had hopes, and dreams. However bad I’m hurting, it has to hurt so much worse for Luther -_ you muse. It’s this thought that has you standing in the man’s bedroom doorway.

Luther is sat on the end of his bed, a blank expression on his face, eyes settled squarely on his knees as his entire physical form seems to wilt. He doesn’t cry - but he doesn’t need to, because you can see the raw agony on his face.

It’s enough to make you crumble all over again.

“Luther,” you don’t know what to say, what _can_ you say? You didn’t protect Warner, and Luther had to bury another person, after losing his wife - he’s had to bury his own grandson. You’re not his flesh and blood - you’d be surprised if he didn’t resent your survival, if not your failings, to defend Warner and the bar in his absence.

You had no right to force that conversation, though. It wasn’t appropriate - but your heart ached deeply in your chest looking at him right now, and all you want to do - is try and take care of the man - if he’ll let you.

“Do you want me to stay at Frankie’s for a while?” it comes out as a hesitant whisper - and your question doesn’t need to have any clarity for Luther to instantly read into what you’re really asking. He can tell just from the way you’re looking at him, and the forlorn look in your eyes.

_Do you want me to leave? I’ll go, no questions asked._

“Of course not,” Luther sighs, his shoulders slope, and he drags his head up from his sloped over position to look at you neutrally. His words are spoken hoarsely, but meaningfully, and it’s enough to make you cross the room in a quick bound and throw your arms around his neck. Luther Braun is a man with a natural abrasion, but he always knew when to let it down, because he is as warm as he is brittle, and does not flinch when you bury your face against his shoulder. “Stupid girl,” - his tone is absent of malice, and more gently chiding than anything else. He rests the flat of his hand in your back, and for a while, neither of you say anything.

“What happened with Commander Erwin and the officer?” Luther asks, after a long moment of silence, addressing the elephant in the room. You close your eyes at this question, and draw in a deep breath before slowly shifting your head against the man’s shoulder, looking up at his drawn, withered, expression, a heavy sort of stare as he looks down at you.

“They took a description of the other two men who got away. Then they said I could go with Officer Aiblinger and maybe go to trial to rule on if - if I was within my right to shoot. I think - they just wanted it to go away, so - they said I could also just do some military community service while they investigate,” you manage to rasp out, voice now tired from how much crying you’d done in such a short period of time. It’s at this you hear a thoughtful, rumbling noise leave the older man from the base of his chest, and you feel him shift a little before his hands move to the backs of your arms and he moves you a little off of him, looking at you with a now furrowed stare.

“They were willing to do that? For a civilian?” his mournful gaze had turned into a more calculating one, before he decides on a look of slight concern, and then moved his hands up to your face, pressing your cheeks in, in such a way that always managed to make you feel much younger than you were. Luther didn’t do it often - but every time he did, it made you feel pleasantly small - like a child being held by a parent, or guardian, and now was no different.

“Well, apparently Commander Erwin is of an upstanding sort - most scouts are - but listen to me, little bird,” Luther takes on a serious, definitive tone and holds you perfectly still. “I want you to pay attention to what I’m saying and take it to heart.”

You nod your head in his hands, eyes looking up at him unwaveringly.

“Not every person becomes a soldier for a good reason. I’ve no doubt that the Commander probably wanted to do right by you. Heavens knows he should, you’re looking after him and his bunch even outside of business hours - don’t think I don’t know when you’ve opened the kitchens just for them. If you decide to do military community service hours, I won’t stop you. I’d even be proud of you - but I want you to be careful, as careful as you are here - because I won’t be with you when you’re doing it,” you’re uncertain, at first, at what he’s getting to - but it’s very apparent that Luther is deeply concerned about what would happen to you when you’re not somewhere close to him, or people he trusts implicitly, like Franklin.

“Of course, you know I can handle myself when it gets a bit - lairy - if that’s what you mean,” you say, tilting your head a bit. “I’ve worked here, and in bars in general, long enough to handle myself,” - which is true. You’re a bawdy sort but you’re no-nonsense when it comes to your boundaries, and Luther had been pleasantly surprised to find you had no qualms trying to shatter somebody’s wrist if they tried touching you in ways you found unpleasant, and you were headstrong where it counted.

“I know, I just - I couldn’t stomach the thought if something happened to you, especially now,” Luther sighs, and responds more openly that you expected, earning a surprised flush as he lets go of your face and looks away, feeling the sharp agony of not having been at Warmaidens to protect Warner, _and you._

“And I want you to be able to tell me anything. It’s been a few years since I’ve been active in service but I’ve heard the stories - I know just how much some are willing to exploit their power, especially over a no-name girl from this kind of backwater,” he squeezes your shoulders and you know that Luther isn’t trying to be cruel when he says this, and it dawns on you now what he’s scared of when he’s not there to look out for you. “-Warner wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you either,” he adds, somewhat bitterly as his grandson’s name leaves his lips.

You swallow thickly, still feeling a heaving guilt in your chest, even with Luther’s love and forgiveness - that you aren’t sure you deserve.

“Luther, I--” _I’m sorry._

“No, let me finish,” he says, whispering to you urgently, before loosening a grip on you and getting up off of the bed.

“This is a horrible time for it, but I don’t know if they’ll ever be a good one, now - but there’s something me and Warner discussed and wanted to talk to you about,” he walks to his dresser, and pulls out a letter from the top drawer, before turning back to you, opening it, and sitting down again. “If you want to know just how much that boy cared, he was the one who suggested this,” he looks at you, and begins trailing his fingers along the Eldian text, knowing you cannot read it. It looks official though, and there’s even an emblazoned stamp at the bottom of the letter, signifying it came from a place that had the authority of the Royal Assembly - not something you expected Luther to have, really.

“What am I looking at?” you mumble, cheeks heating a little at your lack of Eldian literacy - it’s embarrassing in this world, when you’d been in university for three years studying law, and a deep understanding of English and its intricacies is what had gotten you by. People wouldn't assume it - with what most take as an overly familiar and common-sounding accent back home, but you were dedicated, and smart - and possessed completely by the idea of rising above how you were raised, only to now be here, in this strange new place, to start from square one once more.

“This is a letter from the Royal Notary Office, we weren’t going to pressure you into anything, but,” Luther falters - seeming almost embarrassed now. This was going to be a speech that Warner was going to give you, not him, and the man is woeful with his emotive language. “-well, the boy - was going to be in college a good while, and he wasn’t certain about - well - much of anything outside of that. It was his idea - to -make you a partner - in this,” he gestures to the walls of the tavern, and it takes a moment to set in what that means.

It’s a family business, and Luther continues on, studying your expression as he speaks. “-he proposed I make you lead inheritor - take the pressure off of him a bit. He - we,” Luther looks down now, a sad little smile on his face. “We wanted to see if you would take our name,” - and at this, silence falls.

Disbelief, even.

“Luther,” all you can manage to choke out is his name, and the tears begin rolling. Funny, that. You thought that once they had first started they might never stop and that you’d have none left. Yet here they come again. After all of this, he doesn’t resent you - after all of this - he still _wants you -_ and for all of your thoughts, the Braun family - they - _loved you._

Why.

“I understand if - I mean you have a family name - we can still work around it - with the Notary office - but Warner, and I, we wanted to give you the choice --” and that’s enough, you curl your arms around his waist like a snake curling around its only source of warmth, and comfort.

You must be all the man has left, to make such a grandiose offer - it would be a signifier of leaving everything behind, giving up even _trying_ to back, because, well, can you? You lived alone, with a gargantuan student debt, a broken relationship, a father who doesn’t even---

“There’s not much in my name,” when those words leave your lips, you feel yourself giving way to something - something heavy.

Something crushing.

The reality that - reality, as you know it, as it was - _wasn’t somewhere you belonged_.

It was just somewhere you were.

And now you’re here - somewhere equally real - somewhere you can effect _change,_ a life that, for once, has given you some pieces to its puzzle that nobody else knows. Maybe there’s a reason, maybe there isn’t - but right now, you’ve given yourself one - and that’s keep as many of your precious people alive as possible.

No more deaths, not like Warner. Not like this.

“I - what do I have to do? I can’t - I can’t write, and - and are you sure you want to do this right now? You can think about it - reconsider even, I mean - fuck - the coroner - it’s only been a few hours,” you say, looking down at the letter, and you trust him utterly, and implicitly, with what comes next. Who you are - and what the pair of you are scrabbling around in the bloody remains of Warner to so desperately find.

_Family._

You feel Luther’s hand wrap around your wrist, guiding your finger along a blank, black ink line on the end of the page.

“Tell me your name, and I’ll write it down. If you want to keep your last name and add Braun, it’s fine. This line is for your whole name, whatever you want to do, or not do. The inheritor details were already worked out by me and Warner a long time ago, when you started making changes to the bar. He never wanted this place. Why else would he run so far - to Einrich College, just to avoid it, hm?” there’s no bitterness in his tone this time, just mournful sadness for the hours he never had with him, when he was at school. He never begrudges a penny spent, or the drive the boy had, he was better than his father - his blood son - and was determined to claw his way out of podunk obscurity no matter what the cost. Luther only hoped - only wished, as he saw his grandson laying in the morgue that day, that every day he spent had a moment where he smiled, where he laughed, where he was content. He hoped there was as much happiness crammed into that fleeting life as possible.

“I want to change my whole name, then,” you suck in a sharp inhale of air, glistening eyelashes looking up at the man. 

“Tell me what you want me to write,” his voice, patient, eyes - softening now - but with a curiousness.

“Birdy Braun,” you whisper.

Silly as it may sound - is it sillier as any of the other names here? If memory serves, there’s even a _Mina Carolina_ walking around, so it surely isn’t too bad, and from the watery smile on Luther’s face, it isn’t as strange as you think - and Birdy is the name that you had been blessed and given when the love, and unyielding kindness of the Brauns set you _free,_ and gave you a means to go on.

After Luther finishes writing your name, he wraps his arms around you from behind - and all is quiet.

Neither of you want to be left alone with your own thoughts, either - so that evening, your bedding is moved onto the floor of the master bedroom, and strange as it may seem, you keep each other in mournful, quiet company.

Luther wants to ask why it’s so easy for you to leave your old name behind.

You want to ask Luther about Warner’s mother and father.

There is too much pain in the air though, so in a quiet, unspoken, mutual understanding, he blows out the candlelight, and neither of you speak a word more that night.

* * *

The days that would follow are filled with funerary arrangements that operated at a blindingly quick speed as Warmaidens remained closed, much to the concern of the regulars - as word had spread, and now it wasn't strange to open the front door and see baskets and little offerings of condolences and flowers left by people - mostly soldiers - trying to extend the same unyielding, and unwavering care and support that you and the Brauns had tried to extend to everyone that walked through the door. These days are also spent with Luther making some efforts to impart some literacy upon you - _you should at least be able to spell your own name -_ Luther had said.

It was a start, you could recognise the symbols in it, and knew the stroke order for that much at least - but Rome wasn't built in a day. Still, you had read a lot in your time at university and in a war-torn world with no digital luxuries to speak of and limited methods of escapism, you're keen to devour some of the dusty books you see selling for cheap coppers in market stalls and shop windows. It was the kind of place to drown yourself in any escape you could find - it explained the sheer amount of alcoholics, drug users and gamblers.

You're even able to brave holding a gun again - finding a peace, and comfort in going on long, long hunting trips with Luther, and filling the pages of ratty old poorly bound books with ink and charcoal portraiture. You might not be much of a writer - even as a studier of law you weren't much of one, but you'd always felt a kind of easy-found rhythm, and contentedness in drawing. You'd have liked to have taken a more artistic career path - had you thought it'd be economically viable, but the cards fell where they did, and as much as you enjoyed the arts and humanities, your actual skills, seemed to lay with your ability to argue, read subtext, research and work law in your favour. Even if your essays didn't read like they were written by a Valedictorian, you were a force to be reckoned with in your time in the mooting society, at least. 

It was a high stress sort of field that lent itself to being studied by a lot more well-to-do sorts, the kind whose fathers worked in law, and their fathers, and their fathers-father and so forth. The sort that would hunt exotic animals for leisure and didn't have to live on pot noodle like you did because there was a trust fund in place before they were even born. It's how you ended up getting into shooting as a hobby - you'd been invited as a plus one to the country club - quite literally - and proved your worth skeet shooting, so well in fact, that you'd managed to get a membership in favour of representing those snotty sorts at events, where you'd aim to rub shoulders with anyone who might help you secure a contract with a firm after you graduated.

And now you were here. Square one. At least, you had no more debts here, and some skills - and never once had you parted with Warner's hunting knife. It was a way of feeling close with him, even in a little black mourning dress that reached your ankles, and dark hooded bonnet around your hair.

The funeral was a quiet affair, with only two friends from Einrich College making their way to Falkshein for it, but it's enough. 

It is, however, not long enough for Luther to want to let you go, even if it's just for a little while - so when the letter from the Office of the Survey Corps finally arrives, his expression noticeably drops - for a moment, anyway.

"A carriage is being sent for you - they're requesting you at the Survey Corps Headquarters about an hour or so away from here - if this letter is correct," Luther looks away - he feels selfish, for not wanting you to go. It keeps you both out of court and importantly, gives you a break away from Warmaidens, which you so sorely deserve. "They wish for you to start your community service now, so I'll go pack you some things, alright?".

You can sense he's not ready for you to go - he doesn't think he could manage the loss of Warner without you, and without you, he is subject to the curse and loneliness of his own thoughts.

"It's not forever, yeah? I'll be back every night I have to go. Commander Erwin said it'd only be a few hours at a time," you offer, which draws a slightly more relaxed smile from the man.

He's gotten a little attached to you now, more so than before - you're all he's got.

But Luther, more than anyone, knows that all birds have to fly at some point.

"Stop worrying about me, you'll get wrinkles and start looking as old as I am," he says, trying to chase his old, confident, abrasive tone, but it falls a little short and doesn't quite match how he usually sounds. Still, it's more himself than he's sounded in quite some time, and so, you simply roll your eyes in response, and give him a small, watery smile. It almost feels like old times, for a moment, anyway - as he helps you pick out some clothes - nice ones. Frankie gave you an advance on your wages in light of everything that's happened, because he didn't expect you to come to work at the Horsefair for a while, but didn't want you to worry about money or need for anything after you and Luther had already lost so, so much. In the past few days, outside of funeral work and long, long hunts, the pair of you had spent a lot of time together, and Luther had spent somewhat freely - because in a bitter twist, he realises at least, he no longer has to send tuition to Einrich College anymore.

So he buys you some much needed clothes instead, and treats you the way he thinks his wife and grandson may be proud of him for. Greta had always wanted a daughter - but it wasn't something Luther had ever been able to give her - and in truth, he doesn't think he knows how to be the father to a daughter, and frankly, doesn't know if a grown adult woman like you would even want one, you _had_ one, but you were definitely family, that much was certain.

He feels an ache in his chest when you hop into the little white carriage that pulls up outside of Warmaidens, and levels the driver - a soldier, he notes, tasked purposefully with moving soldiers to and from headquarters to the nearby cities and towns to save a long walk. It's the only dedicated carriage service - as the Corps is quite underfunded, but the gesture isn't missed by Luther at all.

"Take good care of her, I want her back in one piece!" he yells, earning a salute from the driver - a young, tawny-haired boy with hazel eyes.

"Yes sir!" - the drivers eyes following you into the carriage in a way that made Luther purse his lips.

And that would be that - you wave to Luther through the small window until he's no longer in sight, and don't speak a word until the sight of a large, sturdy building comes into view an hour later. You expect a castle - but suppose the old, dusty HQ castle had yet to be repurposed back into a base for the Survey Corps, and this was probably the _normal_ base this side of Wall Rose, at least. The driver - a boy by the name of Rudolfus, helps you out by holding out a hand and almost lifting you entirely from the edge of the carriage to the ground, as though jumping might seem too much for you.

_Hm. Maybe this dress makes me seem dainty,_ you muse _\- but Luther seems to think I look quite sweet and less vulgar like this, so maybe that has something to do with this. At least it's nice and breezy._

"Commander Erwin has sent for you directly Miss, please follow me," - and with that, you follow the boy - bewildered and a little nervous, feeling the curious and wandering eyes of soldiers you hadn't met before landing on you as you walk by. You stick out as someone not wearing army garb, and in a jarringly different colour palette, you walk the halls in a pair of neat, black little dolly flats, some pale, thick, cotton white hosiery and a cozy a-line black suspender dress that reaches just below your knees and cuts off, and a high-neck, thin, pale blue, long-sleeve blouse underneath, your hair left loose for once - and tied at the very bottom very lightly with a thin strip of navy ribbon.

The few soldiers that do recognise you - double take a moment, not used to seeing you dressed - well, like a woman, often.

Rudolfus stops short of a wooden door, and smiles nervously at you, a faint blush on his cheeks.

"You can go straight in I think Miss. Commander Erwin is expecting you."

What you don't expect, when you open the door, is Premier Dhalis Zachary, and unbeknownst to you - this would set a whole new pair of wheels in motion, and not one that you, Luther, or even Commander Erwin would expect...

Or even be able to stop.


	5. Identity Pollution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very short setup chapter, to brace for a bigger one (i hope) and work into some Erwin/Reader (finally) - sorry if events seem rushed but there's only so much daily life one can write, and we just want the good stuff, right?

_Chapter Five_

**Identity Pollution**

Premier Dhalis Zachary sits across from the familiar sight of the scout commander, both, apparently in deep conversation after you knock and warn of your entry. When Erwin beckons you inside, your eyes instantly land on the premier and you feel yourself stiffen. It didn’t immediately register at first - he simply appears an older man, with square frame glasses a droll, serious tone. It’s the few splashes of coloured regalia on his casual, simple, green attire that seem to jog something in your memory - and he has a sash.

“Premier Zachary, forgive the spill over of my next meeting, I’ve been expecting her for some time,” Commander Erwin smiles, briefly - and lets his eyes linger on you. He hasn’t seen you dress in such a way before, but it’s pleasantly pleasing to the eye and you look more professinal than usual, which, considering present company, is something he’s grateful for.

Erwin cannot stop himself from looking at you when you breeze in and acknowledge both of them with a respectful inclination of the head, nervously flattening your hands against the hem of your dress.

“This is Miss Birdy Braun,” you do your best not to react - but you suppose word travels fast of your inheritor status - that, or Commander Erwin is keeping a particular eye on you, you’re not quite certain, but feel your cheeks burn at being addressed with your full, and now _legal_ name. People didn’t seem to react to the first name as much as the second, you’re legally a _Braun_ now, and not through marriage - it’s something that happens, but not often.

“Premier, Commander,” you acknowledge them both, your voice reduced to a wary murmur. You know very little about Premier Zachary as a fully fledged human being in this world, but the slim facts you do have - are that beneath the surface, brims a strange, almost maniacal kind of sadist, that relishes in the suffering of the aristocracy.

As singular facts to know about a person go, it’s a caution-inducing one.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion, I was told to come right in as you’ve been expecting me,” to which Premier Zachary waves a dismissive hand - it’s his fault his meeting with Erwin has run over time, there was more to discuss than initially expected.

“Not to worry Miss Braun, I’m afraid this was my fault, we won’t be much longer,” he doesn’t smile like Erwin when he speaks to you, but gives you an unreadable look, gears turning behind his eyes. It’s a look that Erwin recognises, and finds himelf suddenly very wary of.

“Quite, please wait outside - in fact, I’m aware it was an hour’s ride for you, so if Rudolfus is still there, feel free to have him attend you,” he means for you to make the HQ as comfortable as home, but you just smile tightly, and head back outside.

Erwin is keen to get the Premier back on track and out of his office, because the scheming sort of look that borders on a predatory twinkle in his gaze sets his teeth on edge just a little bit. The man is harder to read than even himself to most others and he has some rather questionable predilictions when it comes to the _other_ aspects of his personality. He isn’t certain if he can call the way he looked at you - lecherous - per se, but it was most certainly calculating.

“Hm. Doesn’t have the build of a soldier, or the mannerisms. A civilian, Commander?” he questions him bluntly, and Erwin is in no position to lie - you gave yourself away when you did not salute either of them. Premier Zachary isn’t one to get hung up on pointless details - he’s all business, so there’s a reason he’s asking rather than just polite curiosity.

“Yes, she’s serving community service hours here,” he knew this would invite questions, and typically it does, because Premier Zachary manages a lot of judiciary issues, particularly in relation to military tribunals, and knows the minutia of the laws even better than Commander Erwin himself. He lives and breathes it, and gives the man a strange look over his glasses.

“Military custody, Commander Erwin?” Premier Zachary says, proving just how sharp he is in this regard. “-that’s not something the Corps uses often, and on a civilian?” he adjusts his glasses a bit up the bridge of his nose, and levels the man with a serious expression.. “Whilst technically doable, I’m wondering why - I’m not having any particular thoughts on revoking it, but I am curious,” he admits.

It isn’t in anybody’s best interest to lie, and so Commander Erwin speaks as frankly as he can, but only when he begins to articulate this outloud - to somebody who existed outside of the warm and inviting fog of Warmaidens, did it seem, perhaps, questionable.

“-There was an incident,” - he opens with that, and considers carefully how best to make it sound less like an act of pure favouritism, because as the words leave his lips, that’s exactly what it sounds like. “-in the layover town the Corps ride through to our expedition exit point, her family’s tavern is a rest stop for us and for some of the Garrison I believe. Unfortunately there was a robbery, and she shot two of the four assailants dead,” he studies the Premier’s face for any sign of disturbance, but finds him stony-faced, “-She and her family have been very accommodating to the forces, and whilst I’m sure she’s protected under the Homestead Doctrine, unfortunately, one of the Braun’s were killed - a silt throat. All things considered, reliving it in court was the last thing they needed,” - it still felt like favouritism.

There was an interested spark in the Premier’s eye that did not sit well with the commander for reasons he couldn’t quite inwardly discern. He assures the commander that the actions taken by him - and apparently Officer Aiblinger, once Erwin elaborates, are not under scrutiny. He doesn’t expect to be grilled so particularly, if that is the case. The Premier opens up a strange and invasive line of questioning though, more than polite curiosity, and for once - Erwin isn’t sure why. The man whose eleven steps ahead, is for once, lagging behind - because he’s missing the piece that’s in the Premier’s puzzle. The man operates on a completely different schedule to Erwin, his purview is much wider, and his goals - more earthly and tangible than the commander’s own.

“-And you can speak to her character?” it seemed like such a particular, weighty question. A little too severe for the situation, but plausibly, maybe he’s just trying to understand Erwin and Aiblinger’s choice to help you, and keep you out of court, but the look he’s giving Erwin - it’s too keyed in and focused.

Erwin pauses to consider the question, though. He doesn’t know what’s going on in the Premier’s mind, but he has no reason to not tell the truth. He finds it easy to answer - because when he thinks of you, he thinks of your welcoming nature and endless patience.

He thinks of the heartbreak and childlike mewls of agony, as you sat in a puddle of blood, devestated and almost inconsolable - but how even still, you’d cried out _\- I didn’t want to kill anyone -_ and the agony as you’d said it. Even with all you’d lost.

Even in the face of unwarranted, unyielding horror, you were good, you were kind.

“Absolutely, I’d dare say she’s the best kind of person,” this is lofty praise from a man like Erwin, he’s hard to impress, but your depth of heart had clearly left an impression - and that was enough for the Premier.

“Good,” Premier Zachary says, resolutely. “She’ll do, then.”

Commander Erwin is bewildered by the remark, but the Premier merely rises from his chair, and tells him not to concern himself.

“Hm? Oh, I’ve a particular job I think someone in her position could fill nicely - it’ll be better use of her time - and I’d be willing to expunge the record,” he says, casually. "She's in for military service, correct? I might as well make use of that, as the particulars of this role would be better suited to somebody that hasn't been institutionalised yet, and hiring isn't something I have much time for," he finishes, bluntly.

_What._

Something drops in Erwin’s gut, and it’s the sensation of uncertainty. He’s not one to easily unnerve, but he knows he isn’t in the position to tell the man no. At the very least, he’s certain that Premier Zachary - strange predilections aside - isn’t a harmful presence, and certainly, wouldn’t hurt you - he thinks. He isn’t one to simply take a keenness towards someone in passing - a young woman no less, he’s disinterested, crotchety, and a perfectly content widower. Premier Zachary is a man who has a good sense of justice and demands a thorough job in every aspect of his life, so in truth, Erwin is uncertain of the man’s grand designs, and in return, Zachary offers very little by way of explanation.

All he’s stated, is that he has a role for you, someone who has something like a murder charge hanging over their head, that he’s willing to expunge the record of completely, and simply erase the incident in Warmaidens from history forever.

Premier Zachary isn’t one to exploit the rules like that, it is antithetical to his nature, but he’s methodical, and all it does is set Erwin ever so slightly on edge from the sheer discomforting sensation of having no idea what a sweet little thing like you, could _possibly offer_ a man like Premier Dhalis Zachary.

And for several months, Commander Erwin would not find out.

* * *

_{One Week Later}_

Premier Zachary could hardly believe his luck.

He's a man whose stretched beyond thinly across the three regiments and his immense duties to all, including the Royal Assembly, though largely, every waking moment is taken up by paperwork, reports, or meetings. He may not be a young, spry, active service member who clocked in physical labour hours, but the mental labour is quite a lot. When he encountered you, for the first time - it was as though the universe was finally giving him a break - a _boon,_ even. You're from a small little place - Falkshein - and had a good working relationship with the forces, as those who knew you, knew you on casual and friendly, _non-suspicious_ terms. You've got a warm, slightly vulgar but overly familiar tone that reeks of an unidentifiable, friendly, village backwash which suggests that you're originally from some podunk, unassuming hamlet. Your records were likely lost in the culling expedition, due to your lack of mother and father - and then inheritor status passed through as you became a Braun - legally, rather than through marriage or blood. You're intuitive, and in the opinions of those who'd met you, quite charming in your own way. Your voice could fill a room with tremendous ease, and you had a laugh that could rattle bones - though nobody really hears you laugh quite so much anymore, all things considered.

And then, there's the thing that made you perfect to Premier Zachary.

You murdered two people, and needed service hours to stay out of court, as a professional rug sweep by people whose favour you had gained. 

This made you perfectly suggestable, exploitable - even, as he had some leverage - but Premier Zachary found that he didn't need to use it, surprisingly. All he'd done was propose that you do a little task for him - a few days each week, that involved travel into the interior, to do what Erwin would have you doing - but for the Military Police, and simply, being his eyes and his ears. He made it seem benign enough - you're a civilian, after all, he just wants a civilians opinion of how the regiment that mingles and has responsibility _for_ civilians behaves, or confesses to behave. Part of Premier Zachary's job is to audit and review every regiment and its running, and he's long since been aware of the Military Police's problems, but proof is always intangible, and he struggles to identify any structural cause.

In truth, he doesn't expect anything grand from you, he just wants to know how the MPs conduct themselves when nobody is watching, and he specifies that you're not to put yourself in _any_ danger - but take note of any names or anything you think would be problematic to the average civilian, if they were to know. He expects you to integrate yourself as a sympathetic ear, using honed skills as someone who did bar work to glean anything useful, and give an honest, fresh, outsider opinion. Importantly, he needed somebody who couldn't possibly be recognised from any training corps group, and after Erwin spoke so convincingly of your character - he thinks you're perfect.

Even if you _are_ illiterate - that just makes you seem more benign, and easier to trust with sensitive information - especially if you make a show of not being able to read it. Bothersome as a lack of notes or written updates could be, he thinks that this could work. 

So, with Luther's blessing - or insistence - rather, you're sent to the largest precinct in Wall Sina for the Military Police

_I'm not dead yet - I can take care of it while you're gone, brat. You don't refuse the Premier._

Even though you _did_ see a sad glisten in Luther's eyes - you do every time you leave Warmaidens, but you simply have to do it. As much as it pained you to be torn away from the men you felt you needed to be around - Miche, and Erwin, to try and mitigate the disaster that's coming, you can feel fate operating in such a way that this might be the step you _need_ to take. At face value, you simply thought of the Premier as the sadistic, strange old man who would preside over Eren Yeager's military trial that would take place in the future, but it clicked quickly that the man was more than that. He too, had responsibilities, and grander ideas - made more obvious when he bluntly asks you to go and monitor the unseen behaviours of the MPs, and was willing to hold the deaths of the two assailants you'd killed over your head to do so.

It clicked in that conversation that Premier Zachary had _power -_ and truth be told, if you could fulfil his little task, you might even be able to justify some of the damning knowledge you had stewing in your mind.

So the conclusion, for you, is simple enough.

You need to find evidence of a plot, before the enrolment of the 104th Cadet Corps at the end of this year, because in truth - the sooner - _the better._ Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie, are the three biggest threats to public safety right now, and if your understanding of the timeline is correct, they've been inside the walls for a while, and probably investigating the royals while you'd been living your life, trying to survive, and trying to piece together - well, something from nothing. It does pain you, though, deeply - to have to be away from Falkshein when the Survey Corps would be leaving for an expedition - a short one, but short could be deadly too. You wanted to see them off - and keep every promise you'd made to look after the Corps before, and after - if they passed by your home, but right now, you had to keep your eye on the bigger picture.

This wasn't some bit of tragedy art anymore, this was _life for you now,_ and you had to do something. Anything.

Now that you'd experienced death here, for what it truly was, fan opinions and nuanced takes went out of the window in this regard. Whatever feelings you had for your conceived notions of Annie, Bertholdt and Reiner were, you had to abandon them and assume that, like Erwin and Miche, they were _real_ and _here,_ and behaving as quiet, deep cover, sleeping terror cells that, at some point, within three years time, were going to tear down the dreams and safety of everyone in the Walls for a second time. Your heart would ache every time you thought about that fact - sharply remembering what it was like to feel someone die - a preventable death - _Warner's -_ and picturing that on a masse scale.

"Be extremely careful, if you feel you're in danger or being treated poorly, you're to return straight to me," Premier Zachary had said, his tone brooked no room for argument.

You didn't dignify it with a response, because there was a hard, steely look in your eye - you merely nod.

"You can count on me, sir," your lips twitch into a small, bolted-on sort of smile.

And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((..... man.... I'm lame. This is probably the most implausible part of the premise, but yknow what? NO ONE does enough w Premier Zachary. He's a cool dude. Fight me. Anyway, we're in for some deepcover sexy noir vibes, I hope. I wanted to go in a different direction from the Reader who ends up going straight into 104th. Realistically, wouldn't you try a better power move if you have all the pieces already? Plus, bootcamp sucks. Sure, you can bond with the mains, but they're all enrolling as kids who graduate as teenagers and relating to them might actually feel weird for this older!Reader. So, I went with this direction. Expect a rise in quality after this mini chapter - this is easiest my lowest budget one but I'm tired and overworked and just wanted to shove the premise in your face...))


	6. All of Your Eyes

_Chapter Six_

****All of Your Eyes** **

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Not being able to read is a problem, you find - and not just for the sake of relieving boredom. It was a long ride to the interior, but doable through specific carriage paths and roadworks at least. You were nervous and apprehensive of the unknown, but the Premier assured you that the precinct you’re allocated to for your service hours doesn’t typically do transferees, and that it’d be highly unlikely anyone who came to your bar would recognise you. It was up to you, however - to maintain a cover story.

“You’re not getting anywhere like that,” - was the start of what would prove to be a long campaign of condescension from a voice that was quickly becoming grating after your first forty minutes. Upon arrival, you’d given your cover name - _Kristina Ermann -_ which, personally, you thought didn’t even remotely suit you, and were quickly ushered away as part of the designated _help._ That said, the man who was told to expect you made a point to treat you like the miscreant they were told you were - a petty vandal and resistor of arrest who happened to have family in the forces in the Garrison, being done a _favour_ by those that honoured your family’s legacy in the service, by doing community service.

“You need to get on your knees and really get in there,” the man - an older soldier by the name of Ralph Schultz criticised you sharply. He’s tall, and wrinkled, with sandy hair and a short goatee with a narrowed, disdainful sort of look. He’s holding a wet rag in his hands, and squeezes it in such a way that you feel the cold, chemically tinged cleaning solution dripping onto your back.

_This is degrading,_ you grimace, as the rag lands in front of you with a wet squelch, and you feel a breeze on your back legs as you stoop to your knees. The sensation of the cool air makes you frown a bit - though, your dress is quite modest, you think, and turn your head as you scrub viciously at the stained, wooden flooring to find Ralph’s foot a little too close to your ankles, and a smug little smirk on his face.

_Did he just---?_

You cringe internally, cheeks heating and feeling a sensation of vague illness as you realise he’d likely lifted the back of your skirt with his boot, and was enjoying - perhaps a little too much, his utter authority. It seems that not all Military Police are as benign or as easy to get along with as Aiblinger, as you’d come to find out. The few days spent in the interior were, as a result, quite awful - solely based on the fact you were quickly relegated to the role of _miscreant_ and _the help -_ which combined, had a lot of the more abrasive members of the central precinct regard you poorly. Not every person there was disagreeable, though - there were plenty who found it easy enough to ignore your existence.

You wouldn’t say that you had the same friendly camaraderie you were used to - but there’s a woman, one who seems vaguely familiar, who at the very least, isn’t horrible. She’s got unnaturally large eyes that sit like glassy jewels in her otherwise unremarkable features, and a naturally dull, withdrawn expression. She’s casually dismissive at how some of her comrades behave, but she herself, isn’t cruel - not to you, anyway. Typically, none of the MPs catch your attention, and you’re preoccupied with keeping your cover and out of the eyes of soldiers like Ralph.

It’s the name of the woman that gives you a cold, familiar lurch in your gut - but a man by the name of Kleiner referred to her as Traute - and for the life of you, you cannot remember _why_ she rings a bell, but you’ve a sense for her importance. There’s a few years before the scouting legion would get the negative attention of the Royal Assembly and general public, you think, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t active, and _doing things -_ you realise grimly.

Now is the time to find out how accurate your knowledge of impending events is, and if you can change it. The difficulty being - nobody is just bragging about their plans, or their discreet behaviours. Traute had no interest in making small talk with you, and most of the MPs were content to have you cleaning up after them, or cooking up a fierce meal. There’s a filing room simply called the Archives - but you don’t know if anything underground would be recorded and buried, or simply not recorded at all - and _you couldn’t fucking read._

This is a pain, you think - and realise you have to bide your time. So, bide your time, you do. The other difficulty, you find, is pulling out of your quiet, seething state as Kristina Ermann and acting as though you’re an unbothered servile sort who did nothing but sweep up, cook, and carry the commander’s things, and there are so few who keep his regular company that know who you are, that the lie is easily sustained. Everyone who knew what had happened at Warmaidens had assumed you were directly at the side of Commander Erwin, and as a result, were not often seen, and the cover story in the interior kept both identities, at the least - a secret from the other. Erwin has, as a favour to the Premier, not corrected this misconception - should anyone bring it up, and the half-truths flow easily enough. He’s never had need of an assistant before, but it makes him seem that much more busy and _human_ that his duties seem more realistic.

_“The new recruiting season is here -_ he would say, if a soldier braved to ask him, in Warmaidens - _I’m afraid I don’t have enough time to attend my own property, or personal duties. Some housekeeping is a small price to pay to keep the peace,”_ \- that’s something Erwin did end up saying, because funnily enough, a soldier did finally pluck up the courage to ask.

A gangly, soft-eyed, delicate seeming boy from the Garrison regiment no less - Kieran Holtz, someone you had spoken to regularly and quickly zeroed in on the fact that he and Miche were quiet, stealthy presences in the bar on most days. He sees the look of conflict and uncertainty on his face - because the idea of you being carted off to housekeep for someone in order to stay out of court did not sit well with him, especially a man of such power. It’s only when he considers that Erwin’s moral fibre on a day to day basis is unquestioned, especially in comparison to a lot of the lower rungs, that Kieran reluctantly drops the subject.

"Long time no see, eh, my lover?"

It’s why the first thing Erwin says, when he sees you at Warmaidens, is a simple statement of fact.

“You’ve been missed,” - because you have, but it can be taken in a multitude of ways. The taverns patrons missed you, Luther missed you - but he, and Miche - had also missed you. You were part of their routine now, a missing gap in their evenings since the peace had been forever disturbed at Warmaidens. The stripped varnish and bleached pale wood had even been hastily painted over, but still looked like a dark blemish on the floor of the bar whenever looked at.

“Oh, yeah?” you reply, a little breathlessly, as you’d practically bolted off of the carriage and made an immediate pounce towards Luther, who was quietly cashing out and taking stock behind the bar, checking the levels of the shelves behind him on what was again, a quiet Thursday, with only special exceptions and those sleeping in, in the rooms upstairs, using the bar space. Once you had let go of Luther and turned to the only other presences in the bar, it had become apparent you’d run out of breath in your eagerness to see him. It’s endearing - and makes you seem a little younger than you are, but the easy smile on the gruff man’s features speaks volumes more than his casually abrasive attitude.

“Yes,” Erwin says simply, he thinks to bring up the soldier - Kieran? But isn’t certain of his name, and simply lets the statement hang, watching as you nervously pull up your stockings, which had come down a little from how much you’d run. There's no wasted words, no meaningless platitudes, when it came to how you interacted with the men of table eleven, everything had always felt gritty and genuine. Every absence of Erwin or his accomplices was always acutely felt, but with the easygoing relationship you'd developed, and open door policy, it was a surprisingly low maintenance sort of friendship. Even after all that had transpired with Warner's death - just as usual, you could pick up wherever you left off, and it was always _natural,_ like a social cement would just pour through the gap between you and join you together again, like you'd never been apart.

Miche had clocked onto it before Erwin, but the feeling is there, you're welcoming, you're accommodating, and you act as though their - his - mere presence is a ray of light in your day. It's a beautiful, rare, seldom felt feeling because so often, Erwin is referred to as a demon by many who regard his career choices as murderously ambitious. When he took over from Shadis as commander, he was immediately praised for reducing the death toll by an order of magnitude by introducing more intelligent, strategic horse formations, but when it became apparent that he was also ramping up expeditions by speed and frequency, words like _demon_ came to accompany words like _brilliant._

But you always seemed to think the world of the regiment, regardless.

“Feeling’s mutual,” you beam back - and that much is true - because being Kristina Ermann, put simply, _sucks -_ and feels like a much more unnatural skin than being Birdy Braun ever was. One feels like a true self - and the other? The other feels like being forced into a mould that doesn’t fit, because ordinarily you’d have gotten right up in the face of anybody you suspected of looking up your dress. You don’t know if Erwin includes himself when he declares you were missed, but you take it in easy stride. “I didn’t expect the rides to and from the Interior to be so _awful_ and _long!”_ you complain - because more often now, if your duties finished late, you’d be staying in empty, spare bunks at the precinct, which always had you keeping one eye open at night and distinctly uncomfortable feeling.

“I missed your leave for this month’s expedition, didn’t I?” you tilt your head a little, giving the man a small, sheepish look - the 33rd expedition isn’t one that goes down in note, but it’s one that Eren Yeager would witness the devastation of, in passing, as a young boy, when the Survey Corps rides back into the walls, stony-faced and aching with loss. “I’m sorry, I wanted to be here for that and see you off if you stopped by,” you’re quick to add. Even if there isn't anything particularly history-forming, that was likely the grim march in that a very young Eren witnesses, one where loss is so heavy that even a demon such as Erwin couldn't stand to look into the doe-y eyed children that had a misplaced adoration. It always felt so utterly undeserved with such death and sacrifice raining over the remaining survivors as they'd quietly ride into the city. Even if it wasn't of note in the history you had distilled in your mind, it was undoubtedly still an impactful, and perhaps traumatic time, so you placed emphasis on it anyway. The expedition _was important -_ to Erwin at least - and those that had probably gotten hurt or died, and you wanted the man to know that your concern was real, and that caring what happened to him and his regiment was a full time duty, not just when you're around them.

Erwin looks a little surprised at your words, but he isn’t sure why - you always paid rapt attention to whatever goings on were occurring with the forces. You even seemed interested in dry, boring, recruitment drive material and were more than content to have him or Miche explain it. Your lack of literacy was apparent, but you’re clearly whipsmart, and have a fierce memory - it seems. Not just for remembering orders, names and faces, but even information that most wouldn’t retain if it wasn’t directly involving them - you _remembered._

“That’s quite alright, Mr Braun was incredibly accommodating,” there was, thankfully, some things you’d left to slow-roast and you’d drilled the man with instructions before you left, so Warmaidens was able to reclaim its reputation a little, and make a decent impression on first time patrons of the Corps who realised this was now a designated waypoint for their weary bodies, both before and after expeditions.

“Good,” you smile, a little tightly - and it’s now that you realise there’s a faint bruise under the man’s left eye, just on his cheek, and so you point to that same area on your own face. “-What happened there?” - it’s easy enough for the pair of you to fall back into casual conversation, as though neither have you had left - as though something _horrible_ didn’t transpire.

It’s almost like old times.

“Ah, rough landing,” it takes him a moment to realise what you’re gesturing to, and adds “ODM,” under his breath - it’s a given really, no matter how good you are. Things happen - often unexpectedly - in the field, and you had to make do with whatever friction, direction and method of movement you had, no matter how rough it could get.

And then the pair of you fall quiet for a moment, before you hoist the small overnight satchel at your side and give him a short nod.

“Gotcha, well - I’m glad we took care of you, even if I just missed you guys. We can catch up if you like - if you’re not too busy? I can open the kitchens too if you like,” even though you’re _clearly_ exhausted, you seem to pull from a special reserve of patience and energy when it came to the scouting legion. “-or run you a bath?” - plumbing being what it is, showers are much more conventional, and easily heated baths are the comfort of the rich, or those who installed their own plumbing and knew how to do it - like Luther, otherwise, they’re a pail-by-pail hot-water-by-bucket pain in the ass, and only the family rooms had been properly fitted, in order to make more spacious showers for guests.

“That’s alright,” in truth, he doesn’t want you to rush around him, but your readiness to do something - _anything -_ as though it was your obligation to care for him, and his soldiers, was always something he admired. He can tell from the exhaustion in your eyes and slight difference in your gait that you’re tired, but even now, are so ready to make time for him. “I’m sure your ride back from the interior was long enough, there’s no need to start worrying about me,” he adds, and then gestures to the empty chair opposite him, where Miche would usually sit.

“It’s no bother, honestly,” you reply, before stretching with few audible clicks and a small yawn - it’s late, not quite late evening, but getting there. “It’s my job to worry about everyone that comes through that door,” - which does, surprisingly, earn a small, seldom-seen smile from the man, which you notice he does a bit more than you understood his character to do. Then again, Erwin, much like everyone else, is far more than _just_ your understanding of them, which could perhaps be caricature when compared to a living, breathing, _fleshy_ person.

“I’m surprised you re-opened so soon,” Erwin admits, but you just shrug - the world wasn’t going to stop, just because you _needed it to -_ you couldn’t really afford to stay closed indefinitely.

“Much as it’d be nice if the world could stop a damn second so we could lick our wounds, we couldn’t afford to stay closed forever,” - and that, for a moment, brings the pleasantries down to uncomfortable reality. Falkshein is not a wealthy place, and even well-to-do establishments like what Warmaidens was becoming, still struggled to keep afloat.

“Aye - on that note - if you’re not too tired, you mind making a quick whip ‘round to Frankie’s? Need some extra stock coming in next week. We’re cleaned out of a few things with all the business we’ve got since we reopened,” Luther - whilst not purposefully eavesdropping, is easily able to chip in and out of conversation with how quiet and empty the bar is, and addresses you directly, rolling up a few documents in his hands - order lists for inventory - into a scroll, and handing them to you when you walk over to the bar.

“That’s good - I think, if you can handle it all,” you say, feeling a little bad now - you’d just been made inheritor, and with the loss of Warner, you wonder how Luther is coping, but the man waves it off.

“It’s not forever, is it? You’re here most the time anyway lass, and what have I told you about worrying so much for your age? Honestly,” he makes a disapproving click with the back of his tongue and rolls his eyes at you. “This one,” he thumbs to you and looks at Erwin “-worries _far_ too much - I’ll expect she goes grey before either of us,” - Luther’s abruptness is something the commander isn’t too awkward around, surprisingly, but he keeps the company of men like Levi Ackermann, so Luther’s demeanour is familiar, if nothing else.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t need so much looking after--!” you shoot back, before the commander can respond with a typically casual, diplomatic answer, and grin at both of them.

“Tch, isn’t that what you youngsters are supposed to do? Looking after your elders?” Luther smirks, knowing this is exactly how to irritate you, but you simply turn your back to him with an exaggerated sniff and a huff.

“Yeah yeah, and I’m fairly certain you’re _supposed_ to pay me, but we don’t live in a world of supposed ta’s,” you say, earning a playful flick upside the back of your head.

“Cheeky,” Luther hissed, before shooing you off. “-Go earn your keep you little shit,” - though his tone is utterly absent of malice, and there’s a hint of a spark in the man’s eyes - like this sort of thing is exactly what he lives for, and the banter he has with you is one of the things that keeps him going.

“Mean,” you don’t have an intelligent reply, so just mumble that instead, and turn to the blond- scroll in hand with a playful pout. It’s now, however, you can see a glimmer in those deep, calculating eyes - and that faint smile, ever present on his lips when you look at him - he seems… amused? That expression on his lightly bruised face - it was enough to lift some of the invisible weight on your shoulders - because you get the sense that he doesn’t feel like that as much as he should. He’s a forever overly serious sort, perhaps to a fault. “Anywho, looks like I’ll have to love you and leave you ‘m afraid. Gotta make a quick stop to the Horsefair and you’ll probably be gone by the time I get back,” that catch up may have to wait, you realise.

Maybe that’s a good thing, but to be honest, you desperately missed the familiarity of Falkshein, and all of the people in it, every time you left for the Interior, and missing out on seeing them off, and the Corps return, made you feel - quite frankly - awful. You’d perhaps also missed a chance with the Special Operations Squad, who, apparently, had stopped in briefly on their return, before parting ways to visit their families. This is standard fare for a lot of the Survey Corps who have family close to their base, because losses are often steep, and so being afforded the ability to go home is something Erwin never begrudged them, _especially_ his Special Ops squad.

That said, both Erwin, and Captain Levi, were the two that never had anywhere to go after a mission beyond the walls. Levi, typically, is back at HQ, filling his free time however he sees fit, and Erwin - well - the first place he thought of to go was here. Warmaidens. It’s the only place he can really consider homely, far more than his empty residence elsewhere within Wall Rose.

“The winter dark nights are coming in earlier,” Erwin observes, glancing to the window which had since been repaired from the break in. “- I’d feel much better if I could perhaps accompany you? The Horsefair isn’t too far,” - he speaks casually, he’s being gentlemanly - you realise - as Luther shoots him an unreadable look, before giving an acknowledging, grateful nod.

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” you’re surprised - but not ungrateful. Usually you’d take a gun with you, and these days you’re always carrying Warner’s old knife, the Horsefair is easy enough to get to in the daytime, it’s a short walk - but Falkshein feels shadier in the late evening, so it’s a nice gesture - well meaning.

It’s the only thing that even somewhat acknowledges the inherent lack of safety in the area. It isn’t much trouble, either. Erwin has a cleared morning schedule in the wake of the Corps return and substantial losses, he has nowhere to be, and has even contemplated simply staying the night.

Now you’re back from the interior, he just might.

In a quick and easy decision, you don't get changed - because you're the kind of tired you feel is the sort where if you're getting changed, it's going to be directly into comfortable sleepwear to go to bed and nothing else, but the weather still seems fair despite it getting into a cooler evening, so you keep your small, delicate dress on, and somewhat sullied stockings underneath, which had darkened a little around the knees from how much scrubbing you'd had to do on all fours. There's a tiredness under your eyes but you're wearing a soft, off-white dress with grey accents, and your hair was now tied in two ribbon-tied low, unbraided ponytails that drape over both ears, hair falling down to your chest in small curls that made you look just that bit younger, and paired sweetly with the little dress. It isn't something he's used to seeing you in, and like when he first encountered you with Miche - he isn't _blind,_ he thinks you're easy enough of the eyes, but in truth, he was seizing this moment with you to finally catch up with you after your meeting with him and the Premier that short while ago. 

"How're you finding it in the Interior?" Erwin opens with that as the pair of you walk through Falkshein, his naturally tall figure easily casting a protective shadow over you. He'd pulled on his long, dark green military coat, which he fills out quite nicely and only serves to give him a more intimidating, pillaresque demeanour.

You let out a thoughtful hum in response, as though you're mulling over the question. It's pretty obvious that Erwin's trying to soften his way towards asking what the Premier has you doing - and in truth, you don't have any issues disclosing it, but it'd be better done in private, not on the streets - too many ears. You also had a separate idea forming, but it depended entirely on how receptive the commander would be - but it's a necessity when you realise just how monitored you are in terms of what you do the second you enter the threshold of the interior. This, combined with your knowledge of just how deeply corruption runs, and the ever-present threat that the Royal Assembly presents, and ultimately, how very _little_ you know about Dhalis Zachary - other than the fact he would eventually fall on the right side of history, at least, is not enough for you to comfortably disclose the full breadth of what you were trying to investigate in the Interior. 

On one hand, you were silently auditing the MPs for general conduct purposes for the express purpose of making Premier Zachary's life easier.

On the other hand, you were painfully aware of a time limit of 104th graduating and your assignment via Zachary ending, and sleeping terror cells within the Walls that you had to find some sort of proof of - before it becomes too late to do so. For this, you need Erwin's trust, and you need to gauge whether the Premier is the kind of person you can trust at this _exact_ point in time before the emergence of Eren Yeager's titan comes out, and you need to play your cards _closely -_ or you would be in far more danger than simply having soldiers like Ralph patronise you and lift up the back of your skirt.

It could very quickly become an issue of mortality, and right now you had nothing but your future-knowledge to go on, but you can at least begin setting down the framework to run any intelligence back to Erwin without arousing suspicion of anybody, _including_ Dhalis, at least, until you're certain you can trust him _right now._

"Oh, I hate the Interior," you respond cheerfully, almost absent-mindedly really, as Frankie's stables come into view. "-don't get me wrong it's all proper and lovely on the face of it but I really can't stand to be around people living so comfortably when the rest of the world isn't. It's all kinda.... what's the word? Nauseating?" you say - and that's true. It reminds you of when your patience would finally end, and you'd forgo the company of a lot of people on your degree course back in your old life, purely because it felt like you didn't share the same reality that they did, and being around such casual extravagance and privilege was utterly _exhausting_ \- so whilst most people would love to work within Wall Sina....

You, clearly, are not most people.

"Hm," Erwin mulls over you words - he supposes he can get that, but it's not often you meet somebody who would turn their nose up to the comfort of Wall Sina. "I suppose I can see that, I dare say I've felt the same at points," he admits - because he's been in and out of the interior often, usually on business, but while he had always been raised in a decent, somewhat privileged condition compared to many, he certainly wasn't a rich man, and the sheer extravagance and excess that the nobles enjoyed was sickening when he was surrounded so often by the starving, and those who couldn't survive the period of austerity. "There is a certain.... excessiveness the further into the Interior you get, it's something that's easy to resent when you remember not everybody gets to live in such a manner," he shows he understands, and you nod.

You almost tell him you'd nearly starved to death, once upon a time, not so very long ago - but think better of it.

"Exactly, and between you and me, I've no time for the greedy and excessively wealthy who would sooner sit on their pile of treasure and bullshit like selfish dragons, hoarding the upper percentile of the world's wealth while I see good people going hungry. In an ideal world, nobility would be taxed exactly what they deserve," you add, somewhat bitterly - one downside to inheritor of a small business is realising just how disproportionately it's taxed compared to the upper echelons of society. "I mean at some point, you have more wealth and comfort than you could use in your life, and to gripe for more - well, shit," you realise that, maybe, just maybe, some of your resentment of your poorer status in your old life had seeped through as an utter distaste for the excessively wealth and privileged within Wall Sina here, and smile blithely. "At some point, aren't ya just fuckin' evil?" - and it's at this, Erwin blinks.

"You have some strong feelings about this," he observes, but closes his eyes a moment, before nodding - your terminology is - well, abrupt, and harsh, in the way that you typically were at times, but it didn't make it any less truthful, did it? "-but I cannot disagree with you, but at least, from my understanding, your assignment in the Interior is short term?" - ah _there it is._

_The digging._

"Yep, it's not the kind of assignment that lends itself to being long term - give me a moment will ya? I'm gonna post this through and see if Frankie will let me take Neera tonight - I told him I'd want to do an early morning run in the woods and scout for some game and he usually preps her the night before if he's got the time," you and Frankie have a working agreement, and though you're working less and less at the Horsefair over time, you've got a sense of kinship with the man, and certainly you had won his favour by successfully taking down a bear and not quibbling over the spoils and shares. The pair of you had arrived at Frankie's home, which had candles in the windows and a large stable outback. 

You usually deposit letters and business orders to a small, metal box nailed to the side of his home, but you also call through a window casually, expecting that he's likely busy preparing a late dinner by now.

"Frankie! I've dropped off an emergency order, mind if I take Neera early? I don't want to get up even earlier just to get down here tomorrow," you call out, sheepish at how lazy you sound when you say that, only for a half-muffled, masculine voice to answer from the upstairs, as a window creaks open and you see a pale hand waving you off.

"She's ready! Now bugger off! I'm eating dinner!" 

You roll your eyes, and give Erwin a little smile that he doesn't return, and guide him to the stables, walking past several horses until you encounter the second to last, a blood bay coated horse - where the fur runs such a particular shade that it looks like a mutinous shade of bloody red - not the most sneaky for hunting, but often you'd tie her to a tree and then begin to trek on foot, unless you were chasing something with considerable speed. The horse lets out a short noise as you pat its mane, and gently guide her out of the stable, revealing a somewhat impressive height, and a rather sinewy form. That said, she seems to radiate a quiet strength, and is already saddled, with various bags - yours - that you'd often leave at Frankie's house, and hunting gear and satchels that Erwin couldn't even begin to guess what they held.

"That's a beautiful horse, do you mind?" Erwin is polite, pausing as he reaches his hand out to join your gentle pets, to which you just shrug.

"Go for it, don't worry, she doesn't mind strangers. Not much spooks her, to be honest," you muse, she was a definite improvement over Heinkel - who was perhaps the scattiest, silliest, outright stubborn steed you had ever ridden in your time there. You'd gotten to grips with the reliant, equestrian-care based travel here, as the country clubs back home had dedicated horse sports, but you hadn't quite gotten used to anything fancy - and riding side-saddle was out of the question. You just glance at Erwin, then down at your dress, and shrug, before hoisting yourself astride and letting it drape down either side of the saddle, modestly covering you whilst you silently pray for a lack of chafing.

"Want to hop on? I've got a scenic route back if I'm not keeping you too much," you offer, looking down (for once) at the very tall blond. He doesn't deliberate, or seem to care about the inherent intimacy of sharing a horse with somebody else, much less the opposite sex. He's that much bigger than you that when he easily swings himself on, you can feel the warmth of his broad chest pressing into the back of your dress and seeping through your skin. If you looked up, you were certain your nose would brush his neck, or perhaps the underside of his jaw - because he's just - _so close -_ and so utterly all encompassing with no room elsewhere on the horse. You contemplate giving him the reigns a bit, but don't want to confuse the horse, and simply take charge and slowly trot out of view of the Horsefair, ignoring some of the curious looks from the few that were out at this time as daylight services, markets and shops began to close up and shut their curtains. Erwin simply puts his hands silently around the small of your waist once simply asking _may I?_ \- This, incidentally, made the already close quarters quite intimate. 

"I figured it'd be quicker for us to get back if I ended up making a detour - and to be honest, with the week I've had, I kinda need a peaceful horse ride," you lean back - only a little, almost imperceptibly, and quickly remind yourself not to look up at the man lest you get more that comfortably close.

"No offence, but you look like you need one too," this doesn't garner a response in words, but you feel Erwin's chest heave against your back a little as he makes a low noise of acknowledgement - you're not sure if he agrees with your assessment or not, but he doesn't fight it, or bring up the slow, agonising pace that you trot at as you begin making your way up a small dirt trail just on the outskirts of the Horsefair.

Erwin doesn't know the forests of Falkshein as well as the forests beyond the walls - which isn't what most people could say, all things considered. The area is quietening down, too, and there's nobody out on this trail either, so there's no one to glance over curiously, or realise who you're riding with.

And then, for a moment, there is quiet - peaceful quiet, only punctuated by the patient drum of the heartbeat against your back, his body keeping you effortlessly warm. The leaves and twigs begin to crunch under the weight of the horse, but due to the late hour and most game retreating to sleep, this doesn't bother you much - it isn't for the hunt, after all. Leaves actually brush and tug a little at the sleeves of your dress when you go through a particularly dense thicket of tall, lumbering oaks that seemed to get narrower as you pass through, but you don't seem remotely worried.

Clearly, you've done this route many times, and the silence is so comfortable, and peaceful, that neither of you deign to break it, even after forty minutes, now that the evening light was spreading shades of red hues that light up the coating of the horse and have you shine a foreboding colour against the natural greens and warm browns that made up the forest grounds. The trail had long since disappeared, about twenty minutes behind you both - if Erwin had to guess, though him being who he is, and his implicit trust in you, he doesn't seem remotely bothered or concerned as you lead him to a secluded location.

The peaceful crunching of leaves and branches halted as you stopped Neera just short of an empty clearing, and Erwin appreciates it the moment it comes into view, easily looking over your head to see the evening hues colouring a steaming body of water. It's almost oasis-like, the sort of thing that gets described in fantasies and fiction books. 

"I noticed a warm bed of water and followed it to a natural hot spring, I've heard of these, but didn't think I'd ever run into one. Me and Luther found it on one of our long hunts - it's one of my go-to places to wind down now when I need a minute - it's so far out from the trail and more popular hunting areas that I don't really get disturbed," you dismount, dress flurrying a bit as you do, but you set your hands neatly on your thighs, keeping it neatly pressed downward as much as you could on your little jump down, ignoring how your flat footwear for the interior was terribly ill suited to the forest ground.

"This is a beautiful spot," Erwin says, after a long moment, watching you meander to a large, felled wooden trunk - which he realises you've probably done yourself, because it's unlikely anyone else has found such a narrowly hidden place, and that you've made some natural seating. There was also a small, well-used fire pit where you'd gathered up sizeable rocks and used the wood you'd felled to make a fire, and probably more than once, you'd likely made a small encampment here. Erwin jumps down after you, and watches as you unclasp one of the mysterious satchels attached to the riding and hunting gear on your horse, and toss it close - but not too close - to the body of water, and simply slip out of your shoes, knowing exactly where to step - and seemingly unbothered by the fact your white cotton stockings were now becoming horrifically dirtied around your feet, where they touched the hard soil you unearthed by making a clearer, less twiggy and messy area around the oasis.

"I come here to think sometimes," you gesture above your heads with a delicate finger upwards towards the reddening sky. "-and look at the stars in peace," there trees that seemed to bend inwards seemed to have enough give that there is a perfect window up into the sky itself, and indeed, the commander is quieted by the hidden beauty here, just as you had been when you and Luther found it.

To be honest, it's a spot where you would often think about - well, everything. Warner. Luther. Trost. The future. Uncertainty. Death. Homesickness. Life. 

It's a spot you think Erwin might appreciate. You missed his leave beyond the walls, and you missed his return, but you didn't have to miss his pain - as surely a man who stands upon so many bodies must feel some, right? This was also part of your plan, though, your laying down the framework for how the rest of your assignment was going to go - because if and when you _did_ find out information to support the knowledge of the impending future, you needed a way to safely relay it to the correct people until you're absolutely certain of who you can and cannot trust.

"It'll be a shorter ride back if I speed up, I just thought..." you trail off, sitting near the edge of the spring and effortlessly rolling down the too-thick cotton hosiery which was a persistent reminder that even clothing wasn't the same standard or quality you were used to, and was very much medieval at times "-I don't know, you might want to take a load off with me? How long have you been back?" you ask, feeling the shadow of Erwin's body fall on you once more as his tall boots stand next to your sitting form. You don't look at him, but see a reflection in the steamy waters of him slowly removing his boots - which was a pleasant surprise, as you rather expected him to be the never-nude sort that would probably perch on the log nearby.

He watches as you close your eyes and let out a low hum of appreciation as you slip your feet into the hot, simmering waters, and bunch up your dress - hiking it so it sits just above your knees and you can comfortably submerge most of your lower legs in, kicking idly. He'd be surprised at how utterly relaxed you are around him, but, he supposes - you aren't ranked military, you do not have an inherent fear or reverence for his rank outside of what you afford as someone who respects the forces. You call him _commander_ out of politeness, not because you have to, but because you respect him, but he's still _Erwin Smith, Warmaidens regular. Commander. Friend -_ at least, you consider him such, considering what he'd done to keep you out of court. 

"How considerate," he doesn't call it presumptive, even if it is - the area is too nice for that, and it isn't often he gets his feelings considered. In fact, most of the time it's just assumed he lacks them completely in every facet that matters, at least, this is the assumption from people who don't know how to read his subtle expressions. He can also understand that - you've invited him to a special place, a secret place, a little holy haven that had been reserved solely for the now incredibly shrunken Braun family which just consisted of you and Luther in the immediate vicinity. So, Erwin accepts the situation graciously, and responds in kind. "Half a day, give or take. Most of my soldiers go home if home is close, after an expedition - to see their families and loved ones."

It's the least the Corps can do, and the unspoken words don't need to be said. Erwin Smith has nowhere to go.

So he had been at Warmaidens.

"So my schedule tends to remain clear for the day and morning after as everyone makes their way back to their section commanders and superiors," you feel the ground shift slightly, and then feel the tall man stoop down next to you, He's still head to toe in uniform, minus the long boots that forever sheathed his strong, muscle-packed calves. You watch as he follows suit with you, surprisingly - and rolls up some of his uniform trousers, which seem a little tight around his joints, and slowly slips his feet in - and an intrusive thought flits by - as you wonder how many have ever gotten the commander to relax with them like this.

"That's nice," you sigh, unpacking a towel from the satchel near the spring and laying it out so you and Erwin can sit on it proper rather than flush on the soil - but he doesn't seem to mind. Still, you lay it out and then recline back, again, showing a surprising amount of relaxation around a man whose so quietly daunting and powerful. This was part of your routine when you came to this place - laying on your back a while and looking up through the clearing at the sky - there's no horizon line like this, but it's a beautiful view nonetheless, and if you were out at night, it was always a perfect window to the moon and stars. "Everybody deserves to go somewhere they feel like they're home, especially after going out into titan country," you say, with a second deep sigh of contentedness. 

The strangeness of the situation doesn't bother you remotely, because Erwin Smith is a _human,_ and even one as brilliant as him needs a break. You cannot imagine he sits around talking about his feelings, he's emotionally unavailable to a fault, but that can't be particularly healthy either.

You can feel his sapphire gaze on you, but you continue to look up at the litany of dusk colours that paint the sky.

"I like that Warmaidens was that place for you today, but I wish I'd been there sooner," you turn your head on the towel - and look at him meaningfully, trying to dismiss the swirling, cursed knowledge that sat in the back of your mind like an unwelcome buzzard, even in this delicate moment. "Better late than never I suppose. If you want to talk about the expedition - " you trail off, then falter - honestly, you're not quite sure how to talk to someone as emotionally unavailable as Erwin beyond the light, friendly relationship you had with him, that only got as deep as it had due to the robbery and the interference of Zachary. "-or um, if you don't, that's cool too."

_Wow, I'm shit at this,_ you groan internally - because not everybody's interpersonal language is quite like yours, and so more withdrawn and reserved types were always a bit lost to you.

Erwin is silent a long moment, and then you hear him let out a short exhale beside you, and follow your gaze upwards.

You don't expect what comes next, and it's enough to make you sit entirely upright when he says it.

"There were losses. There always is. It's the penalty we pay for going beyond the Walls. I caught myself relieved at the low number, and then realised I've perhaps become so callous with the lives of my regiment that any number should, perhaps, weigh my soul more than it does," - he doesn't expect you to understand, he remembers your feeble mewls of trying to cling onto Warner, he knows you have compassion by the bucket load and so he isn't sure how he can make you understand, but at the very least, you understood death, and the weight it carries. In truth, you're surprised at his candidness, and blithely you realise that despite inviting it, you don't know how to react to it.

Your love language isn't quite the sort that plays nicely with all others - again, finding weakness in the withdrawn sorts, like Erwin, so you hesitantly reach out and place a hand on his upper back - it's no _more_ intimate than his hands around your waist to steady himself on your horse. 

"And maybe you're worried you don't feel bad enough? Or what that makes you? People toss the word _demon_ from time to time I notice," you're pretty blunt, and he just nods - though he's come to accept it, it's not a comfortable fact, and he is forced to endure the silence of his own thoughts when his soldiers disperse after expeditions to lick their wounds and decompress with their loved ones. "-I don't think you're a bad guy though, Commander," - you pause after that, looking at his unreadable expression, and then look away awkwardly.

"I mean, you're definitely not a bad guy. Not to me. When you can do a good thing, you do a good thing, even if it's more trouble than it's worth," you point to yourself, gesturing to keeping you out of court, and let out a thoughtful hum, lightly kicking at the hot, steaming water with a small yawn. "Bad guys don't worry if they're bad guys. They just are. You just do what you have to do, you know? Even if you have to group your thoughts up - compartmentalisin' I think it's called. When you have to think about soldiers as numbers and feel relief, or whatever. You're not makin' em less human, or making their sacrifice mean less. It doesn't make you callous, just pragmatic, if that makes you a demon - well, I guess the people saying that need to look over Wall Rose some time, or remember what the _fuck_ happened to Wall Maria to understand it might take a demon to lead people out of Hell," you said, because in truth, you found people who called Erwin a demon, or the Survey Corps as a pointless tax expenditure - or _spare blood_ to be the worst sorts, the kind of people who don't deserve to pass judgement on others.

"Just because we're forcing ourselves to be comfortable in giving more agriculture land to titans doesn't mean we're not in a Hell of our own making. Safety is well 'n good but people have a _right to life,_ a right to _peaceful life,_ to not be shoved behind class walls and fuckin' _dumped en masse to die_ 'cos we can't feed them. The only way you carve our way out of this is if we take what we've lost _back,"_ yes, you understood there was an outside world, but the sheer cramped nature of how secluded the walled off lands were was acute and something you were painfully aware of every time you encountered a victim who lost someone to the culling. The people of the walls don't _deserve_ that - they don't _remember_ their history, all they know is what they've _lost_ and they're at a stage in history where it is simply no longer fair.

Erwin exhales slowly at your words and looks at you as you continue to speak, a spark of _something_ in his eyes as you speak to him.

"I think you might be the only guy that gets that. You're not a callous asshole, you're a good man who has to do horrible things because you have the impossible weight of humanity's hopes and dreams on your shoulders whether they want to fucking acknowledge that or not, ya know?" you tuck some hair back behind your ear and let out an impatient noise.

_It's not just_ your _hopes and dreams, Commander, but humanity as a whole. You're trying to give us a future we deserve. Don't forget that._

"There's not a lot of people who realise how damning it is to be held within the Walls when there's so much land out beyond the walls," he says after a short moment "-I tell myself it's because they're not thinking critically, they don't want to disturb their peaceful bubble, they don't want to pay the toll that comes with striving for change. But a lot of them just can't fathom - even when members of the Corps try to explain - just how much is out there, just beyond us, just out of reach," there's a note of frustration in his words, but you seemed to have impassioned him somewhat.

"And these are the people who pass judgement regardless, so take it in and let it go. Soldiers and families and anyone who loses anybody to that cause looks for something to blame, because otherwise they get lost in their grief - I would know, but take it in and let it go, you're strong enough to take it. It's why you're a commander - but If you need to be reminded you're a good person and not just a demon, you know where to find me," you look up at the sky again, and once again, silence falls.

He almost feels as though he should thank you, he doesn't have a right to comfort, he thinks - and getting it from you? Someone unranked, who hadn't lost comrades to titan battle? It's selfish, he thinks, to relish in those words in the pit of his stomach even if he doesn't show that he is, because he doesn't deserve it, because he does so much in aid of his self-motivated goals that he surely a bastard, through and through.

"You're sweet," he settles on that - it seems inoffensive enough, but it's so sudden that he feels you bristle beside him, and then give a slow, watery smile. "I didn't expect to follow you and talk all about me, though. I actually wanted to see how you were doing since the Premier....requisitioned you from me," he settles on that, because he doesn't know how else to put it.

_Ah, back to all business already? Take a minute, geez -_ you think, before bunching up more of your skirt, revealing the dark skin of your thigh under the dusk light, shaking your head with a small smile.

_Guess it's back to my plan, then._

"I'll tell you, on the condition you properly relax with me," you pause, seeing a light confusion on the mans face - as smart as he is, he hasn't clocked onto what you're about to do, and gives you a bemused look, though not an annoyed one. "-everyone's gotta decompress sometimes, even you. Anyway, I was about to do this tonight and didn't expect to run into you, so you might as well join me," but - at the same token, you don't want to be _that person_ \- who tries to force anybody into doing something they aren't comfortable with, and simply walk forward in the shallower bit of the hot spring, holding a majority of your skirt in your hands as more of your naked legs flash at him before being submerged comfortably in the soothing heat.

And then it clicks.

_Oh! Oh -_ is the dazed thought that hits the commander - when he realises you're inviting him to join you.

"You can join me - or um, not, I guess, but I've always got a couple of towels packed in case I want to hit this place after a hunt, it's not a big deal," - this is definitely your modern, co-ed sauna sharing experience talking, clearly, because both of Erwin's thick eyebrows raise at you in a look of surprise as you shrug a bit, not wanting to pressure him. "I don't really care, I won't look, and there's no one around for miles, but I do need to talk to you about something anyway," - and _that_ got his curiosity.

Enough that his hands actually warily slide over to the top of his belt, watching as you turn with your back facing him, pulling the dress up and over your head and tossing it so it lands on the towel you were previously sat on, exposing the slight gooseflesh of the exposed bits of your smooth back and spine as the light hit it.

It wasn't his place to say something about modesty, or lack thereof - he'd been around you enough to realise how casual you are, he just - well, he didn't really factor skinnydipping into his schedule.

Typically, he's not the _type._

But he _is_ deafeningly curious, so you're surprised when you hear a belt-buckle hit the ground fully expecting him to maybe half submerge himself - if at all, but there is a reason you've dragged him to a secluded area to partake in something intimate, and that, quite simply, is to get him _used_ to the idea, which you were going to quietly propose to him now, and see how he takes it.

There's a reason for it, of course. Since you'd gotten there, survival and friendship had been so tantamount to you getting by that attraction or, well, anything to do in the realm of regarding anybody as an intimate entanglement now you'd accepted reality for what it is and their very mortal bodies, wasn't really on your mind at all, as before you'd even gotten here, to this bleak world, you'd declared yourself on a _break_ from all that sort of thing, really. So, truthfully, all of what you were doing right now, and your hairbrained scheme, wasn't some hamfisted attempt at woo, but a genuine attempt at keeping on focus with your goal - saving as many precious people as possible.

Simple.

You just had to convey how and why to Erwin, and getting him in the hot spring would show you how amenable he might be to it. 

He proves your never-nude assumptions completely wrong when you hear water splash and him clear his throat, indicating you can turn around, though you're stooped low and move to a deeper end of the spring, giving him a wide, wide berth. You feel heat and colour swim up your neck when you take him in. He's not a _bad looking_ guy by any stretch, you'd acknowledged that when you first saw him, but it's only with his incredibly thick, built, strong arms on naked show and enviously carved, muscular body, partially submerged in water and steam that you're actually forced to regard him as a man, and it makes your mind stutter for a moment.

_Oh - oh holy - muscles - okay--_

You blink a few times, realising you're staring, and force yourself to stay in the water from the neck up, the ends of your hair splaying out into the water and splitting into long, dark tendrils in order to give you some modesty. You might be use to co-ed saunas, but typically you used towels and you didn't think you had the _greatest_ body in the world, and this - well, this was more intimate than any European nude beach you'd ever been to. You're jarred out of your thoughts when you hear him let out a low noise - you're not sure if you qualify it as a moan, but you can hear his joints click when he rolls his shoulders back in the hot water, and the springs begin to caress all of his horseback and ODM related strain.

The brief, exposed look of contentedness was enough to bring a small, victorious smile to your lips.

"I cant tell you much about my assignment, Commander," you open with that, and look up at the sky rather than his calculating, and perhaps judgemental stare. "-not until I have something firm. All I can tell you is that the Premier wanted a short term deep cover person in the Interior to help him audit the MPs. He's kinda aware they've got..." you reach an arm up from the depths of the waters and make a vague gesture with your hand, sending small droplets of water in the blonds direction. "- _issues,_ but on the base level he wants to see if there's anything wrong with how they handle ordinary duties to civilians. He thought a civilian would be best for that - since as Premier, he'd _never_ get accurate data on that, but he also needed someone who hasn't gone through basic training or anything who could be recognised from the training corps, or it'd ruin the cover. So, yeah. Short term assignment. He knows he can trust me because he has a court record he can use on me, and can reward me by expunging it completely after. It's kind of a win-win," - and that is the _surface explanation._

That already doesn't sit well with Erwin.

"That's dangerous," Erwin comments shortly - he's painfully aware of what the MPs are capable of, even with his childhood friend at the helm as commander of that regiment, and as someone going in, untrained, as _help,_ to snoop for the Premier - while he understood how you might seem a perfect candidate for Zachary, he knows the pure risk. "Military Police tend to get more dangerous and unpredictable the further you get into the interior," - because of the royal assembly, but, he doesn't say as much, it's more of an intelligent deduction.

"Listen, I know that," you squash the urge to bring up Ralph, you squash the urge to talk about the casually degrading treatment - the last thing you need is the commander worrying and perhaps telling the Premier, and getting pulled out of your assignment before you uncover evidence of a plot. "-maybe - maybe more than you think. I get it. It sucks and I hate it, but - and I don't have anything right now I can give you - so please, trust me a little bit when I say this - _I need to be there -_ there's something - _going on -_ and - I mean, look, for MPs who largely just do stuff inside the Walls, there's more anti-Survey Corps sentiment than should be," you're embellishing now, and outright using your future knowledge to convey the urgency of why you need to be there. "-almost like something is happening - cos nothin' ever happens unprompted y'know? - And I don't know - how to explain it? Really skilled officers are just kind of...disappearing a lot," which is true, you'd see Traute leave for hours at a time, and watch you carefully whenever you so much as glanced at her curiously, and would never leave anything near you, even though your lack of literacy is apparent. 

"I don't mean off duty and going to a bar, I mean just - hiding things, I swear I even saw a guy start setting papers on fire, or shredding documents. They snap at me whenever I try to do typical cleanin' things without so much as even touching their archives- they're antsy whenever I'm around and hardly let me go to the bathroom without someone watching me or knowing where I am. There's something shady going on and - and I'm hearing the Survey Corps getting mentioned more than I'm comfortable with and not just to shit talk. I've a feeling there's some bad shit rumblin' upstairs with the powers that be. Maybe it's just a funding cut, I don't know, but I know MPs hear about everything first, and then everyone else, and they're definitely up to something," you finish, and wait for Erwin to speak. 

He doesn't for a long time, but you hear him shift a little in the water.

"I... don't doubt that your assessment is accurate, the MPs do... questionable things, which is why it's a risk to have you doing this. It's not your job to engage in this, and to be blunt with you, I don't know what we've done to earn such loyalty from you, but I think you're correct - I've had a sense of something bad impending for a while now. It isn't unlike the government to not bother us for so long," he admits - and you feel a short burst of relief - a small victory - you don't sound completely crazy, and the commander is actually appreciating and hearing what you're trying to do.

"This leads me to my second point, if and when I find anything out, I wanna be able to tell you - even if when my assignment is over. The Premier is willing to have me....assist in a more proper context if I'm able to do well and help with his inner audit and not get myself hurt, but if that happens, I need a reason to be able to just... see you, because to be honest, I know the Premier has a lot of ties with the MP more than any other regiment. I don't even know if I trust him the way I trust you, and he monitors my movements carefully," and now it clicks again, once more, with Erwin.

He'd almost think it ridiculous if it wasn't the most obvious option.

"I suppose inviting me to this spot and seeing how close I'm willing to get to you was in aid of this?" you actually look embarrassed when he says this - because it sounds so shitty aloud that you actually feel ashamed, and don't want to make any of your previous comforting words seem invalid.

"An affair," he adds flatly - an interpersonal relationship - even a _fake pretense_ of one, is more than ample reason, and you're unranked, even if the Premier takes you on as some strange assisting role, you haven't gone through basic training, meaning you do not possess rank technically, in the same way that soldiers who step down and decide to become training corps instructors no longer do. Very technically - it could not be classed as improper fraternisation but rather, part of the commander's right to life and privacy.

"I don't think it's an affair if we're both single," you snort, closing your eyes and biting your lower lip a bit, unable to endure whatever look he'd be levelling at you because of this shitty idea. "-I just need a stupid, unquestionable reason to be able to go over to you and tell you what I find out, if I find anything out, because like I said, I dunno if I trust the Premier, and considering you haven't corrected me yet, it seems you don't have a solid answer on whether or not I should either."

Damn, you're surprisingly perceptive, Erwin muses.

He lets out a short exhale, and then makes a deliberate, firm decision.

"Well," he opens with that, and folds his arms over his naked chest, a hint of a smirk on his features "-I think lying about having the attention of a beautiful girl is probably the least terrible thing I've ever done in the aid of humanity,".

You laugh at this - because you're uncertain if the man was trying to be funny, he's infamously humour bereft according to most, and it's impossible to tell on his face, you almost rise a bit too far out of the water, collarbone peeking out as you flick some wet hair back, and laugh a little more at his flat expression.

You needed some levity after all the serious talk, and completely miss that he calls you beautiful, eyes twinkling with mirth when you open them.

"So you _do_ have a sense of humour!" 

And then, just for a moment - he smiles. A wide, all teeth smile, rarer then a shooting star.


	7. See You in Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your time in the hot spring.

_Chapter Seven_

See You in Spring

When the laughter faded, the silence was oddly comfortable, even now - nakedness and all. There’s a little more of a chilly bite in the air, but it makes the hot spring that much more welcoming - and harder to leave. There’s a wide gap between you - both at different ends of the small spring, which feeds into the larger, cooler bend of water that disappears through the narrowed trees. The levity is short lived, and the smile disappears - but not entirely. The sound of your laughter had been missed, you had a booming, cheery demeanour that filled a room with incredible ease, as you were easily able to fill the tavern’s bar floor, even over loud drunken ambience. Even when silence falls, there’s a soft echo dying in the breeze.

Erwin understands the Premier’s opportunism, and now, his sudden, intimate questioning about _why_ he had chosen to help you finally makes sense.

“Little wonder you dislike the interior so much,” Erwin says, after a long moment, watching as you tilt your head back in the water, arms rising out of the water to run your fingers through you hair. The ribbons which held it in low, face-framing braids are in a cluster with your clothes and hunting knife. Too much of the lower portion had gotten wet any way, so you used the spring water to wash it carelessly and craned your head back to do so, exposing the long, delicate, smooth trail of skin that, despite your much more intimate, naked form submerged under the rippling waters, your neck is somehow far more revealing in this moment. It makes him feel a little voyeuristic, admiring the way the rays of the emergent moon now bathe your skin, but he’s one who appreciates beauty, and cannot hang onto a sense of modesty long enough to look away.

“How’re you finding the assignment then? It’s a lot to ask a civilian,” he pauses, and softens his words “-even one such as yourself,” - he acknowledges that you do have some considerable charismatic skill where it counted, but that and deep-cover were two very different things.

When your head bobs up out of the water and you rise up out of it, you look at him, droplets racing down your forehead framing your face.

“Ah, quit being concerned about me, will you? You’re starting to sound like Luther,” you offer him a lop-sided smile, pushing images of Ralph and your more stressed out aspects of being within Wall Sina to one side - it was just something you had to endure - a cost you had to pay to keep people safe, you think. “-If I’m encountering anything unsavoury or whatever, the Premier instructed me to go directly to him and he’d pull me out, no questions asked. I’m doing this because I want to,” - but unwittingly, you tell Erwin something else, because he knows the sort of person you are.

You wouldn’t tell him anything that would get you pulled out of your assignment, or the Premier - not until you’ve felt you’ve helped them - you’re _that_ kind of girl, so he knows instantly that you wont tell him the truth until you want to. The way you talk as well - it’s insistent, determined, reminiscent to when he recalls the personal challenge you had felt when a bear was said to be roaming nearby. You didn’t stop until it was caught, and just the same, you had another prey in your sights - and seem to think, with perhaps more surety than Erwin would think is sensible - that there is something afoot.

“I’m afraid,” Erwin says “-that I feel responsible for the precarious position you’re in,” because it is his fault, in a sense - he should have dismissed you and played down your reasons for being at the headquarters. “Which is why I’m asking so much, not because I doubt your abilities - one thing I am sure of, is how capable you are,” - there isn’t a time he can think of where he’s heard anybody speak ill of it. You’re a ball of light and fire, catching everything alight and warming everything around you, overwhelming the senses, attracting the attention of everybody in the bar with incredible ease. You juggled a seemingly never-ending pile of responsibilities the more he learned about you, and your average work-day.

He worries because he knows, personally, _deeply -_ what the MPs are capable of doing, just as he’d been concerned that you’d gotten the Premier’s attention - because he was aware of the rumours surrounding his more disturbing predilections.

“Really?” you’re surprised at the high regard the man appears to hold you in, because all you can think about is how you’d curled up in a puddle of Warner’s blood, crying and mewling like a child, choking on your tears - how you weren’t a _real_ hunter, and how you _needed him_ to get by. How possibly, could a man as collected and fearless as the commander, still manage to think of you so highly?

You think he might just be being kind, because his stoic face tells you nothing.

“You’re flattering me love,” you close your eyes and yawn, shoulders giving a small click when you roll them back and relax. “-but you’re dwelling too much. Honestly? I’m not attracting undue attention, and believe it or not, I’m quite good at keepin’ secrets,” - you’ve been doing it since you got here. Lying, that is - and keeping secrets.

Maybe that’s why sliding into the unfavourable role of Kristina Ermann is so easy. You quickly had to become the girl who had nothing, but could be anything - who could adapt. You’re not _just a_ _law graduate, just the county skeet shooting champion,_ you’re not _just the girl who works the student union’s bar,_ you’re not _just_ the girl who dreamed of seeing the Manhatten sky lights, or walking underneath Tokyo’s neon signs. You’re the girl who had to _change to survive._

The girl who kept secrets.

“It comes with the territory - barmaids end up keeping all sorts of secrets, it may as well be another currency,” a small, mischievous sparkle finding its way into your eyes now, in that search for levity - and to also impart on the man that he needn’t worry about you. “You wouldn’t believe all of the sorts of things I’ll be taking to my grave, so all things considered I might even be the best person for the job,” well - maybe that’s a stretch, but it gives the blond some pause, and you feel his naturally severe stare raking over your body.

“Well,” he doesn’t disagree, but settles on a reply “-I can’t say I endorse the idea of putting a civilian at risk when it can be helped, but the Premier is sensible in his choices, and I---” he wonders how to say it, he trusts you more than he’d trust most civilians, and he might even consider you something of a friend, and as a result - he _cares_ “Will always be easy to find, should you need any advice, or assistance,” - at this, you smile.

He’s a gentleman, and however naturally awkward he is, his flat expression and blunt tones tell you nothing of how he’s actually feeling, but you know Erwin is not a man of empty words.. Everything he’s ever said around you has been with reason and purpose, and this is no exception. He offered himself for advice - he’s a _busy_ man, but he’s tacitly saying he’ll _make_ time. “You’re good company, and I’d hate to lose that,”.

Oh!

_Oh._

This is his sort of way to saying that you’re friends, because he’s not averse to expressing himself, but it is something he doesn’t do often. The truth is, you were a warm place to go - and it’s not just the rhythm from the routine of going to Warmaidens regularly, because it didn’t feel quite the same when you were there, and it’s important that you know that. It’s the only thing he can think of to say because he doesn’t know how many different ways he can say thank you for what you’re doing, and prepared to do.

You’re a friend of the forces, a friend of the scouts, a dyed-in-the-wool loyalist that he cannot say he finds much in abundance any more. He keeps himself forcibly still when you smile, and slowly begin approaching him in the water. He’s laying back against the edge, hand resting on hard soil above, the hot spring slopes in such a way that his end could be considered just a little shallower, and so your arms come up around your shoulders, crossing over each other at your chest, your hands resting on your shoulders.

“Careful, you’re starting to sound like you care!” your tone is teasing, but his expression doesn’t change, staying appropriately blank as he feels a mounting intensity when your eyes gaze up into his. “-you worry far too much, Commander,” - you say this easily enough. Too easily. As though he hadn’t seen you curled up in a bloody heap, crying out for help, inconsolably. The way you look at him right now, reminds him of the way he’d seen so many section commanders look out at the cadets that join their ranks, and rightly or wrongly, tell them they’ll be fine if they stick to formation. Erwin was always too much of a realist to hide the death count, but he understood the sentiment. It was to reassure, to ease - and right now, he cannot help but feel as though you’re doing the same to him.

“Enough about me, eh? We came to take a load off. How’re _you_ feeling?” you’re straight to the point, and he watches the way your eyes rove down his neck and settle across his pectorals. He’d find it brazen - even for you, but glances down, and notices the faint press of taut, ODM bruising indentation. Most seasoned members of the corps have it, and become calloused to it - not even noticing, but he supposes to a civilian, soldier wear and tear is slightly lost on you.

“Better, thank you for bringing me here,” there is no denying a hot spring is perhaps the best cure for any kind of muscle strain, but it isn’t often Erwin would indulge in anything similar - like a hot bath after an expedition, purely because he’d rather not be alone with his own thoughts. He’d rather take an efficient shower, and drown himself in his work to keep any grief at bay. With you here, though, he’s not damned to his own company, he doesn’t have to slip himself deep into a report, he doesn’t have to decompress through _more work._ You’re easy company. Always have been. He likes that about you.

As though reading his thoughts, you reply and offer warmth with careless abandon, the way it seemed you always had.

“We can make a thing of it, if you like,” you muse, saying it as casually as you can. You have an in, with the commander - the person you’d be relying on to try and change what you think the course of history is going to be. You _have_ to sink your claws in deeper. Gazing at him reminds you that he is not an abstract piece of art, and you cannot picture him laying on a roof, on the cusp of true death, dying like so many people do in this unforgiving place. He’s _the commander_ yes, he’s _that_ Commander Erwin Smith, but he’s also the man who helped you without a second thought. He’s the man who asks you how your day is, who has a seemingly infinite amount of patience when you need to ask him anything, or don’t understand what he’s working on with Miche. He’s a friend, a _warrior -_ and - looking at him now, with faint bruising from the expedition, and the jarring realisation the man is as alone as anybody in this world can be, hits you all at once like a freight train.

_The Military Police killed his father. The same regiment I’m having to cozy up to. No wonder. No wonder he’s -- it all makes sense. He’s worried. He knows what they can do. I’m the only person he sees beside Luther when everyone else is seeing their families after an expedition beyond the Walls._

_No… wonder…_

“If I’m not in the Interior and you aren’t busy - of course,” you glance off to the side, a faint stain of colour on your cheeks - because you sound a little eager to your own ears. “-Usually I just go on long hunts these days and Luther doesn’t always feel up to it, but I think it’s important - to get away sometimes,” you look over at the towels and clothes piled not too far behind Erwin, and he follows your gaze, suddenly dawning on him why you invaded his space.

It’s about time the pair of you thought about getting out, but neither of you said it.

“I may take you up on that,” it isn’t a rejection - but it isn’t an acceptance out right. Erwin reminds himself - that he is alone for a reason, his lifestyle and his dangerous choices weren’t conducive to anything intimate, but as a result, he’s gone so long - so long utterly starved of intimate touch, and intimate cares, that he’s uncertain how to tread. The sensible part of him tells him he should lightly reiterate that anything closer than you both are now is in the interest of maintaining a cover story for when it’s necessary--

But the words die in his throat when you rise out of the hot spring, arms switching position awkwardly so your right hand grasps your left breast out of a light sense of modesty, pushing the other behind your forearm to cover your bosom - but incidentally heaving your cleavage up.

_‘Oh, mercy,’ -_ is the only thought that escapes, but he makes a point not to visibly react, remaining aloof to match your surprising immodest casualness that permeated your character.

He doesn’t even think to avert his eyes this time, because you move too quickly to do so - and are maintaining his gaze as you open your mouth to reply, your left hand then gingerly lays flat between your thighs under the simmering water. The image burns into his mind as your hair drips down your back and front, goose flesh raised as the cold, bitter air hits you hard, your breath even more visible as grey fog when you exhale. “We should probably head back, it’s actually gotten pretty late,” you say, thighs exposed as you rise out a little more, walking to Erwin’s side and ignoring the sensation of the biting night air against your exposed backside - there’s only so much you can cover up and the man doesn’t even hint at a lecherous stare, but his blood runs hot in his veins when you’re practically almost all the way out of the spring.

_Oh -that’s - she’s - alright. We should get out. Nice little body on her, though - Miche was right-_ he swats the intrusive thought away as quickly as it comes, because you’re a friend, a carelessly intimate friend, but a friend all the same.

This is the closest he’d been to someone physically - in an immeasurably long time, and he feels the warmth coursing through his veins. He’s alone by choice - and he even keeps his friends at a distance, he doesn’t toy with the feelings of others, either, so he is quite at a loss when he feels his involuntary, treacherous twitch between his thighs, under the water. Erwin doesn’t get embarrassed easily, or often, and if he does, he’s not one to show it, but right now, he’s somewhat out of his element.

“Oh, oh shit - it’s cold, it’s cold, it’s cold!” you shiver, knees rubbing against each other a bit as you grimace. “I knew I should have gotten changed before I came,” you look at the man, somewhat apologetically. “I uh, didn’t think this through clearly,” you say, getting to the edge and now able to release your chest - which is pushed against the side of the spring, hands flat on the hard soil.

Well, time to climb out and give a prime view of your ass, not that Erwin’s the type to tilt his head to the side and look, you are basically right next to the guy.

“It happens to the best of us,” Erwin, in typically Erwin fashion, replies diplomatically and humourlessly, but there’s a little twinkle of amusement in his eye - you notice, in your peripheral vision.

“Nawh, I just act on my ideas quicker than I think them through sometimes,” you admit, hoisting yourself out and resolving to make your movements quick, and pick up the towel behind Erwin’s head and wrap it around yourself for some warmth. Thankfully, you had quite a few, and usually carry a smaller one for your hair, and towel off while Erwin turns around in the water, ready to follow suit.

“Oh! Here,” you pause your drying off, and give him the other spare body towel - which he silently accepts and gracefully covers himself from the waist down to match his rise out of the water, heading to his pile of shed clothes. Your eyes catch his dripping wet musculature, forcing your eyes not to dip impolitely, because he’d afforded you the same courtesy, but _fucking hell._

The man has a body that would make every neck-shot down, attention seeking, flexing, lady-killing gym rat absolutely green with envy. Even his thighs, as thickset as they are, are shaped hard with taut, packed muscle, and you realise you’ve been staring far too long when you see him pull his underwear and trousers up beneath the towel discreetly, and raise a brow at you when he turns around.

“You’ll catch something if you don’t hurry, the temperatures still dropping,” he points out politely, not calling you out, and merely buttoning up his shirt casually as he speaks.

You blush at having been caught, and quickly pull up your underwear from around your ankles until they disappeared up your thighs beneath the towel. Throwing on the pale dress is simple enough, and the towel drops once it’s secured down your body and you’re tugging it down past your panties. The white cotton stockings are much too dirtied from your work earlier in the day, but you pull them up anyway, and lazily clip in about half of the garters - just enough to keep them from rolling.

You absolutely regret not dressing in your thick riding gear, still feeling damp in the dress as you make your way to the horse, teeth almost chattering. Did it always get this cold, so early into the night?

“You still look cold - here,” the commander interrupts your thoughts, and you feel something slightly heavy settle on your shoulders, shielding you from the bitter night’s air.

“Commander?” it takes your tired brain a moment, but you realise he’s draped his long, thick, dark green, formal military coat around your shoulders. “-Oh! Thank you,” when it clicks, you thank him and give him a wide, impish smile.

Erwin feels a light sense of relief, though a significant, intrusive part of him regrets the choice to pass you his coat. The light coloured dress, thin as it is, especially with how improperly dried you are - well, to be blunt, you were more covered in the spring, when you were covering your chest and crotch with your hands and arms, than you were fully dressed. When you pulled the dress down your body, he felt his stare briefly escape past your collarbone as the dark nubs of your breasts press flush against the thin material, reactive to the chill in the air, and giving a transparency that leaves very little to the imagination. Certainly, it’d be fine when you dry off, and the material becomes more opaque again, but he felt himself get a guilty eyeful.

He can control himself, of course, but all it did was needle him with more intrusive thoughts, the kind that were usually outwardly voiced by Miche, or by the other soldiers who were much more open about their lecherous appreciation in the bar.

Erwin distracts himself a little when you pull the coat over yourself and do up some of the buttons, mercifully - and feels his lips twitch at how easily it totally encompasses you, the bottom nearly brushing the grass. It’s an almost whiplash contrast, going from the uncomfortable warmth that had trickled southward to appreciating the - admittedly endearing - sight of you in his coat, but it’s just innocent enough that it distracts from the more seedy musings.

“Ladies first,” he gestures to the horse, and lets you climb on in front, and again, easily takes up space behind you, shifting a little before the flat of his broad chest presses against the back of his coat, hands, once again, settling easily around your hips.

You give him another impish grin when you tilt your head back, nose brushing his chin as the moon highlights the playful glint in your eye.

“You’re gonna need to hold on tighter than that, love. We’re going to make some serious dust!” and before he can even stop his final, intrusive thought, you hit the reins hard and send your horse into a sudden sprint, without warning, keen to make good time.

The intrusive thought burns in his mind, harder to dismiss, betrays a level of honesty with himself that manages to make him uncomfortable, even at this age.

_I’ve got to stop finding in love in bars._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {{{ a mini chapter because i'm stressed at work and am now a specialist for no extra pay. haaa. Also, apparently I've secured a mortgage. Shit's stressful. I love you guys though. Anyway I just wanted to lean into this moment a bit and give it the time and care I think it deserved before moving on }}}


	8. Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {[[[ so I've started updating on Wattpad first and here second, there isn't a delay of more than 24 hours generally, but, if you want to start supporting me there (if you use that platform) I'd appreciate it! https://www.wattpad.com/user/HaephestusCrex I decided to start crossposting. Anyway, have a purely indulgent chapter - one i'd consider Lewd Lite [Lewd-Adjacent???] }}}}

_Chapter Eight_

**Alone**

It is an ill-advised fancy, he tells himself - and a friendship that courts something more intimate out of necessity. A complicated relationship, but a doable one - because there's a fiery determination about you, one he can't quite understand the root of, but it's there. You always want to do better, provide more, give more - everything about you is the spirit of excess in things that you deem matter. Self-care is your love language and you spread it carelessly and infectiously, with few limits. There is something welcoming in that, and Erwin didn't feel remiss accepting it - as he normally might, because you're like that with everyone. Yet, despite this fact, you still have a way of making whoever you're addressing feel like they're the most important person in the room with an effortlessly theatrical skill, that comes like breathing.

You used to be like that all the time, it's part of what he and MIche would come in for, though ever since the passing of Warner, you're a little more muted at times - the fire inside you dimming just a bit. It's almost imperceptible, but Erwin is a painfully perceptive man. The laughs are less, and the causeless smiles are less, too. The more you're pulled into the interior - the more he feels this is tangible.

The notes helped, though.

It started the morning after the hot spring - the pair of you arrive tired, as the heat had rendered your skin feeling soft, bones pleasantly eased and bodies exhausted. Erwin rises early, despite this, the next day - but you had left long before, it seemed. He remembered vaguely you saying something about an early hunt. He was just uncertain of how early you must have risen. Part of him is somewhat dismayed - as a day feels like it's lacking something without your input in it somewhere. Soldiers move around a lot and don't have a lot of constants but home, but for the man who lives alone and has no home in the spiritual sense, Warmaidens is the stopgap -without you, though, it feels rudderless. The only reason he sleeps as well as he does that night is because of the time spent in the spring, decompressing. Some soldiers sleep for hours after an expedition, and some cannot stand the silence of their own thoughts and losses - Erwin is the latter, and it is why he works so much and rests so sparingly.

Last night was one of exceptionally few, restful slumbers after an expedition beyond the walls. He isn't sure if he deserves to be so unplagued by the weight of his burdens - even if it is for one night - but it is one night of near bliss. No expectations to pull from a reserve of depleted energy and strength, no bitter expressions, no scornful civilians who think he's a waste of skin and taxes. Only you, your impish grin and glittery eyed stare, and limitless warmth.

And the notes.

It starts when he rises and realises you're not around - he was going to go to your room and retrieve his coat, as a segue to enquire about how you slept, and share breakfast. What he doesn't expect, is a food trolley left outside his door, with his room number crudely scrawled on a piece of paper on top of his neatly folded green, formal coat. Directly next to that is a simmering pot, which still has the lid on it, and an empty bowl. Pulling the cart in with a little, metallic squeak of the wheels, pulling in a comforting scent as he removes the lid.

Inside is a steaming bowl of golden porridge, with soft, herby smells emitting from it that disrupts the plainness of the oats. He raises a brow - because it's different, and not conventionally plain, but he trusts your abilities implicitly. There's a ladle in there for him to serve as much as he'd like, and it's now he also notices something on the second shelf nearer the wheels, and sees warm bread.

Even though you're not there, he still feels the warmth of your touch. He wonders, briefly, just how early you'd gotten up to do this, and shakes his head to himself. Lifting the tray of bread, he blinks curiously at the sheet of paper underneath and pulls it out. You're not profoundly literate - he'd gathered as much at your blank expression when he and Miche would discuss recruitment materials, but he never really drew much attention to it. There were plenty of country sorts and people who simply didn't take to, or opt for, education and went directly into labour.

It's not much of a letter to be honest - because you can't write, but it's unmistakably from you. He pours himself a bowl of porridge and admires the black, simple, yet elegant stream of black ink that had been pulled into a dried shadow of a bird on a branch. Underneath it, are a few words that he can tell, just from how they're written, that the stroke order is clumsy and is much more reminiscent of someone mimicking letters as they see them, rather than knowing how.

_UntiL We MeeT agaiN_

It's like so many goodbyes he'd had in person, but poorly scribbled.

His lips twitch a bit, hinting at a smile, and he folds it away delicately, slipping it amongst his things so he can take it with him. It's a little goodbye that he knows you don't have a way of fully articulating, but he knows you well enough to know that is your way of bidding farewell without seeming rude. 

Shuffling back on the bed, he pulls the dining tray off of the trolley and places it flat on the bed, and sits with his legs folded and finally indulges in a spoonful. The plainness he's accustomed to swims past and a gentle tinge of flavours of soft vegetables. Gazing out in the direction of the window, he watches the sunrise hues and feels just a little out of sorts that he doesn't get to wave you off the way he often does when you're going out on a hunt, and he's in Warmaidens. 

Unlike most days after he comes back from an expedition beyond the walls, he has slept very well. It is the first time he's spent the night in Warmaidens too - and it's incredibly comfortable. When you'd seen him off to bed, you told him where the extra bed throws were and said you'd leave his coat with him in the morning - as you'd gotten the bottom of it a little dirty from how short you were and it dragging briefly on the ground. Somehow you'd found time to wash out the edges, fold it up and make him breakfast. 

_Impossible woman,_ he thinks - and not for first time, muses how you might be one of the busiest women he knows. He finishes breakfast and lays flat against the bed, closing his eyes briefly - it was still too early to head back, his schedule was clear until midday and it was only an hour on horseback or carriage. He thinks he might even wait for you - unless you're on one of your longer hunts or due in the interior later. He starts the morning clearheaded, bruising on his body easing a little in its usual aching, and it's now, in this stolen moment as he thinks about you - that he allows himself to feel far, far away from the emptiness and burden that weighs him down after every excursion beyond the walls. 

He thinks about how unrelentingly patient you are, despite your busy nature - and the kindness you had afforded him last night. You didn't brush away his guilt, but acknowledged it, and made him feel stronger for it. It was as though the intimacy of the thermal waters had broken down an invisible barrier once the blond had allowed himself inside of it. 

Then, guiltily, he feels a sensation of tingling rolling down his stomach and hips. It started as a light, diluted sort of urge, not too pressing - until he begins mulling over the evening prior, tracing over every detail of what had happened.

Erwin exhales on the bed heavily - remembering what he agreed to as a cover story. It wouldn't be a particularly hard one to maintain - the pair of you are friends, but, it had been a long, long time since he'd been that sort of close with a person.

He thinks about the way you rose out of the water, clumsily covering your breasts and crotch with your arms and hands, and tries to swat away the feeling of his heart slipping past the rip-cord of his pyjama-bottoms, as slow, gentle, steady, pulsing began trickling to between his thighs. There is an inherent guilt surrounding the sensation, but it's familiar and pleasant - and not something the commander indulges in terribly much. He's not so far removed from his own humanity that he doesn't occasionally feel a lusting urge for intimacy, but he keeps it clenched deeply within himself, and retains an outward persona of a man with unquestionable moral fibre outside of his military decisions. He is, perhaps one of the more upstanding members of the military, who has not allowed subordinates to ascend rank by fraternisation, or bribery. He's straightlaced to a fault - he's aware of how his regiment is treated - as a death sentence at times, and always takes forced transferees with an unoffended stoicism. He allows himself to indulge in his thoughts of you for the simple fact that you _do not_ have rank - and are unlikely to go through the training corps any time soon. You're an off-the-clock blanket of comfort and solace that so many soldiers took refuge with. He's no different in this moment - human like the rest of them, because it's been so long - his body aches like the groan of a well-worn wheel, begging for a slick, wet touch.

The commander turns to his side on the bed, his back to the door and lets out a heavy exhale into the empty room. He knows he's slipping, just a bit - he'd already agreed to whatever you needed to do to relay information from the interior, but when he's thinking about you like _this -_ he feels disingenuous and dirty - like a poor excuse for a friend.

Dirty for relishing in your translucent dress as much as he is, and like he's somehow betraying the trust you clearly seemed to have in him, not to give you lecherously untoward treatment. You so freely shed your clothes and your worries around him that he feels a creeping sense of shame and defeat when his hand slowly slithers over his pyjama bottoms as he palms himself through the thick cotton material. 

_'How depraved,'_ \- is one of the few thoughts that burst through his haze of guilty arousal - because it's not enough. He teases himself with a small burst of relief from dragging the thick cotton over his steadily pulsing erection, but every break in his movements just feels like it's filling him from foot to forehead with a deep, pressing need for more. He's slipping further now, and there is a certain sense of depravity to it, because it wasn't intentional - he thinks - at least, not as much as you'd planned for. Lured to an intimate location with the intention of a long, peaceful decompression after hours of horror beyond the walls, certainly - but picturing you so indecently just to relish in the heat building up under the flat of his palm? 

It wasn't for him. The unintentional slip - the way each crease highlighted another curve of flesh or soft skin, molding itself to your body like a second skin from the dampness of the hot spring pulling the little pale dress taut against your body. It wasn't on purpose, it wasn't a show - but he's treating it like it is, a private audience just for him. It's too easy now - as he is met with no restraint from any needling sense of shame. He grabs ahold of the memory with both hands, pulling himself free of his sleepwear in one quick motion. 

Erwin feels himself tense at his own touch before relaxing against the bedsheets. It would almost feel strange doing it here, not in his own home or commander's quarters - but surrounded by the warm, encompassing atmosphere of _you -_ has entrapped every sense he has, like a temporary insanity. Warmaidens is a temple to everything he enjoyed about you, it's welcoming, it's comfort and consistence embodied and a homing beacon every time he finds a surplus of time and nothing to fill it. The happy gleam in your eyes, the sway of your hips every time you'd bound out of the kitchen with steaming plates and cold drinks, the impish smile like you know something he doesn't - feels like it seeps into every fissure and crack in his well-worn armour. 

_Fuck_ \- in the name of all that's good and right with the world you're just utterly filling his world in with nothing but you. Every sliver of soaked flesh in his mind's eye and translucent material clinging to the curvatures of your body sends him sailing further and further away from his shame, accepting more and more sin into himself than he ever has.

It borders addiction in this moment, because it's all he's thinking about. It's far too effortless to remember the way you pushed yourself up out of that hot spring, chest heaving clumsily behind your hand and forearm - he's seen that roguish grin so many times that he imagines it on your face then and there while your knees rub together to fight the cold, a flat hand between them being the only thing to cover more of that divinely appealing flesh.

_"Commander....?" your lips curved into that playful smile, hair dripping down your back and face, droplets cascading down between your breasts and disappearing under the clumsy forearm lazily crossed over your body. There's a hint of mischief in your eyes - a little more than usual._

_"It's - r- really fucking cold, are you gonna help me get out?" your knees are still rubbing together, but he knows what you want. You're beckoning him closer, and so he's wading through the wisps of steam of the thermal waters until he's so close that he can feel you breathing into the night. You're looking up at him through dark lashes, almost coyly, and don't resist when he lays both hands on your shoulders, before sending the left down the curve of your spine. He marvels at the way he so easily raises goosebumps along your soft skin, relishing at the way you shiver and instinctively push yourself up against him, arm pressing against his pectorals._

_"That won't do at all, will it?_ _" he's more aggressive in his fantasies, and pulls your arm back so your bare breasts are flush against his skin, and you look at him with implicit trust - the way it felt like you always had. Like you had when you were at your weakest and desperate for aid, the way you'd hang on his every word whenever you stopped by at his table. Your eyes are so wide, so glassy, so perfectly trusting. It feels like he's soiling you almost - and he doesn't want that - he wants you to want him, and lets the hand that's still nested on your lower spine dip until he has a handful of your backside, a smirk on his features._

His mouth parts ever so slightly when he presses the side of his cheek into his pillow, a heavy sigh leaving him as he wraps his right hand firmly around the shaft of his cock. It's been a while - too long, clearly, because his body betrays him completely when a soft little grunt of relief chokes its way out before he can completely silence it. It feels too good - it's been that long that when he glances down at himself, he can see just how pent up he is, it has been some time since he'd seen himself so stretched with arousal, erect with an overwhelming need for what was so very real not so long ago. 

He grimaces a little at the already prevalent ream of clear, water-like precum that beaded at the head of his cock. With the flat of his thumb, he gently spreads it down the head and accompanies the sensations of arousal with a twitch of his hips upwards into his closed fist, pumping his shaft patiently. There's an almost imperceptible heaviness that weighs his entire body down as he writhes ever so slightly atop the covers, it has been so long since he has indulged himself in such a fancy that he knows he isn't going to last very long. The muscles just above his hip bone feel taut and ready snap like elastic stretched too far. 

_"Commander Erwin," your warm, familiar tone is filled with anticipation and wonder, a soft squeak of surprise leaving you as you feel his hand cease kneading your ass so perversely before sliding to the front of your thighs and pushing against your hand which parts with no resistance, slipping between the warmth of your shapely, pressed together thighs. "-Ah - C-commander?" your voice warbles in the way it does whenever you're unsure of something. He smirks again, and slowly works his hand up until his middle and index finger lay flat against your folds._

_Your knees tremble in the waters - and not from the cold, this time - but your eyes still gaze at him expectantly, still so full of trust. There's no give or resistance when he presses his fingers up into your folds and lets them drag torturously around your entrance, hungrily slathering themselves in a wetness that makes you cry out against his body which tells him that it's all for him, you're giving yourself to him, and that it's earnest slick, wet, arousal not born of the waters below. In his dreams, your body gives into him so easily, and he's able to carry you to the side of the hot spring, pressing your moist back into the soil and grass above and leaving your legs to dangle in the steamy waters. He admires you like this - spread out so shamelessly in the natural, open, little oasis that allows only a window for the moon over the arching trees and nothing else, bathing your body in its light._

_You let him, his hands wander up from your ankles, to your calves and he leans over the pool of water to leer between your legs, his neck craning down as he presses your thighs further apart and lets his tongue start tracing upwards like a ladder to heaven. You give him everything, and he keens to know - he needs to know. Are you a moaner? Do you hold it in until you can't anymore? Do you cry out or do you let out a deep, desperate groan for more, or are you just as assertive as you are daily? So easily corralling soldiers in a way that some section commanders could only dream was so easy._

It feels particularly indecent - utterly obscene even - to picture you so indelicately. In this fantasy, he's not even fucking you, he's prying your body apart like it belongs to solely to him because in this dream, it does. All of that unrelenting kindness devours him whole and every warm word you'd ever said wraps snugly around him as his vision begins to blur and his strokes become more frantic. The quiet room fills with his staggered breathing, and his fist becomes slick with more and more precum dribbling down the head of his cock in messy spools until it ribbons over his fingers and puddles at his shaft. The wetness makes it louder, but it feels just that more pleasurable as he imagines encasing his tongue in an equally welcoming wetness, slaking his tongue, lips and chin until you're repeating his name over and over, like a mantra. This divine, beautiful, writhing being giving themselves over completely and utterly is enough to send him over the edge completely. 

His dreams, right now, feel obsessive in how they hang over every detail of your nude body that he retained. Right now he's taken over by all of his wants, his need to taste the humanity he's so bent on saving, that he felt like he leaves behind every expedition. He wants to come closer - and you're bringing him closer - just picturing your chest, heaving up and down with every needy, gasping, choking breathe of more. In and out. In and out. Just sends his already depraved thoughts spiralling down until he swears it feels so real he could almost fool himself into feeling your weight on his thighs from your body riding him into the mattress that he can't hold it back anymore.

The tingling sensation of warmth from his feet to his legs to his cock is too much bare and for a second it feels like his heart might burst from his ribs. The fantasy begins slipping from his control, you're not in the spring, but he envisions you arching above him, leaning down so your breasts push flat against his chest. 

_"Welcome home, love."_ it's something you've said so many times he'd come in, but never without meaning, however casual, and right now, with your devilish grin and too-knowing glitter in your eyes, it feels like it means more than it should. In this vision he has of you, it's part of that special attention - something just for him, like he's the only thing in your world, and you're the only thing in his.

His vision blots, and it happens before he can control it - or pull his shirt up to avoid it - as thick, ropey, immensely satisfying spurts of cum that dizzy him enough that he has to wrench his eyes open to try and control the pent up drench of orgasm that squirts through like a bubble that's finally burst, unable to contain his own desires. A low, deep, crackle leaves his throat before he can muffle it, his hips breaking out into a jagged series of broken, uneven twitches and thrusts into his stroking hand, wringing himself out for every last drop, even though it feels - so good - too good - like he's cum so hard it _hurt._

For a while, he just lays on the bed, panting slightly, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation of the moist, darkened material of his shirt that had become deeply soiled with the force of his pleasure. 

Erwin closes his eyes, and sighs for a long, withdrawn moment, relishing briefly in the intense afterglow of relief, like an invisible weight had lifted, before any disconcerting thoughts begin to needle their way through his fog of exhaustion and contentment. After a moment, he can feel his erection beginning to subside into a gentle ache, refusing to sheathe as his body remains rattled from the force of his gratification.

He tries not to let the implications of his thoughts settle in on him, but it perhaps says something about the man - who at the precipice of utter pleasure, yearns for the simple delight of somebody being happy to see him when he returns home.

That's the woman you are, to Commander Erwin Smith, and now, whether he realises it or chooses to ignore it, the facts are simple.

You're home, for him.

And now, you're in his head.


	9. Being Ermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter gets uncomfortable.

_Chapter Nine_

**Being Ermann**

Being Kristina Ermann is probably one of the more difficult things you had to maintain, it felt like a secret within a secret - one you had to _live._ It's disturbing to you, as well, just how naturally these difficult lies seem to come from your lips. You suppose there might be a law student joke in there somewhere, but ultimately, it was starting to eat at you, little by little.

Truth is, you're a little more fragile and a lot more in touch with reality since Warner's death. It's when the nightmares started, _and really started -_ easily knocking every bad dream you'd ever had, out of the water. Being the type that tended to have stress dreams of your home burning down during the final semester of your dissertation, suddenly being immersed into a high stress reconnaissance did not bode well, and dreams of missing your old world's comforts and people were quickly replaced by more troubling thoughts. You were an anxious overthinker by nature - it is why you found so much respite in the grilling, endless, physical labour that this world seemed to thrive on. You think less when your body hurts, but being Kristina Ermann? There's nowhere to run, and the anxiety is forefront - it's forever in your mind - not blowing your cover, finding information, maintaining a lie over a lie, over a lie.

And you're getting to a breaking point already. You're swearing more, getting angrier quicker in short, frenetic bursts you're trying to control.

It takes a number of weeks in deep cover for pressure to reach its apex - and the behaviour is escalating. Ralph, at least, seems to get more and more foothold when it comes to making uncomfortable passes, and more and more you're teetering on being caught. The longer you're in deep cover, the harder it's going to be to maintain a lie, and time is ticking. Annie. Bertholdt, and Reiner's names swirled in your mind ever since you last left the commander and Luther, they were a persistent part of your anxiety now. The fabric of everything you're doing lays in what you can uncover in the Interior.

The Archives are still cut off from you, but worryingly, mysterious absences and murmuring, mumbling natures of the military police were starting to grate on you too. Ever since you'd lost Warner, it felt like you were less patient, quicker to anger - like the cold little voice inside of you that told you to open fire on those four assailants was growing louder each day. It feels like it's amping your paranoia - making you more aware of Traute's watchful, too-large eyes, of Ralph's persistent brushes against your body, but now?

Now you were keenly aware of yet another problem, and it went by the name of Djel Sannes.

At first, you had the same issue that was present with Traute, the name Djel Sannes was familiar, likely important in some facet, but you couldn't pinpoint the memory. Traute, however, is incredibly antisocial and any attempt to talk to her felt like it would end with her trying to end the conversation in the quickest manner possible - as she always gave airs of being simply too busy for the likes you. 

Your own mission to uncover the plot of the infiltrating Warriors felt like it was going nowhere, as you had no lead on where they are, and only a vague idea of what they'd be doing. A lack of clear dates for everything you thought might happen also made this so much harder, and your nerves are getting frayed from repeat exposure to the interior. Another thing you had to get used to were the absolutely colourful screams emitting from the interrogation rooms. The building was mostly administrative, but there were interrogation rooms close by as there's a holding facility a mere few steps away before administration properly allocates criminals who commit crimes within Wall Sina - they're taken quite more seriously than those in the other Walls, where miscreants are merely dragged to the closest jail. 

Ralph and Djel were close, and often you would the pair of them talking and smiling with each other, and the man never seemed to care, or react much, to Ralph's passive lechery. You're limited in your ability to really audit the MPs behaviour - in the manner you think would be most useful to Zachary - as you have no reason to justify tailing anyone on patrol, unless you managed to do so discreetly, but as it turns out, the interrogation rooms provide more than enough concerning materials.

For a start, no arrest records are made of certain people directly taken in by Djel Sannes, which is red flag number one. Force is allowed, in fact, what you'd deem as inhumane force is seen as typical, but even within the parameters of average military custody, what Djel Sannes seemed to get up to was far, far beyond legal limit.

It was then, that you realised what you should be doing - because they aren't leaving you any breadcrumbs to work with, and you're uncertain of Ralph's ultimate importance, but the familiarity of Djel Sannes name, at least, is enough. Enough to make a highly uncomfortable decision.

"Hope you're not squeamish, it's a mess in there," Djel says to you, one day, when you make a point of mopping the corridors to the interrogation rooms. His tone, however, displays an utter lack of sincerity, and when you tilt your head up, you can see a small, self-satisfied smirk on his face as Ralph and another officer drag out a prone, male form. You chew back the grimace on your face - as you'd been mentally swallowing the urge to look disturbed by the noises coming out of the room. The man's feet drag on the ground, and you are instantly hit with the smell of blood, his face is an unrecognisable swirl of colourful bruising and swollen lumps, like he'd been dragged through a hornets nest, and his left hand - the one you can see clearly, is covered in blood and torn skin across nail beds, where now, there are no nails to be seen. The right hand is steadily dripping crimson droplets along the floor as the two MPs drag the civilian away, but it's enough to tell you he likely got his nails ripped out on both. 

It takes every muscle inside of you not to visibly cringe, especially as Ralph and the other MP disappear, and you push yourself into Djel's space. He's a tall, imposing sort - with very short black hair, neatly cut, and pitch-black, blank, sunken and withdrawn eyes that are framed by heavy bags. He's quite a bit older, visibly, with lines on his forehead and sagging cheeks, he's not particularly horrendous looking, but he's certainly not someone you'd consider handsome, but aesthetics aside - just hearing what has happening in that room was enough to make him entirely off-putting.

It made what you were doing next, incredibly cringeworthy.

"I'm not squeamish, Mister Sannes-Sir," you thicken your accent, and laud him with more politeness than is necessary, and purposefully bite your lip as you look up at him. "I don't mind a little blood," you glance backwards briefly, to the retreating form of the dragged-away man, and then back at Djel, and carefully school your features to a fascinated, wide-eyed expression.

"It's more than a little," Djel says, coldly, about to shove you into the room to clean it and dismiss you from his presence, until you press your hands flat against his chest, and his hands instantly fly out to grip your wrists with a bruising, vice-like force that you do your best not to visibly wince at.

"Did you do all that to that fella all by yourself? Must have been a right bad egg," you take on a low, dulcet tone, but Djel's seedy, black stare doesn't seem impressed, but he hasn't pushed your hands off of him. A short, blunt tone that was about as affectionate as a serrated dagger, and he tilts his head downwards to look you directly in the eye, his expression changing to a naturally severe one.

"You're not getting out of your service hours by flirting with me you little floozy, get in there and clean," he sees through you easily, but as he hasn't pushed you off, you swallow the bile in your throat and push yourself towards him, until you're about to push your chest up against him, held back only by his grip on your wrists and your hands still laying flat on his torso.

"Who said anything about getting out of service hours?" you blink up at him innocently, releasing your lower lip and shooting him a coy look through your eyelashes. "I wouldn't mind taking a few more if they're around you, Mister Sannes-Sir," - this earns a derisive scoff, but you can feel a small amount of heat radiating from the small bits of visible neck peeking out of his shirt collar.

_Oh God, I feel slimy._

"Maybe you should come in and make sure I don't miss any spots," you make a point of breathing a little heavier, and glancing over his shoulder into the bloody room, and fight the urge to wrinkle your nose in distaste, or react to the sickening clench in your stomach at the sight. "I do my best work when I'm being watched," - you add, feeling Djel loosen his grip - though not let go - of your wrists, his thin brows drawn into a disbelieving frown.

He isn't stupid, he knows he's far too old for someone like you, but he also has eyes, and you're quite easy on them - so he hasn't pushed you off of him. He doesn't get that sort of attention, and hasn't done in perhaps a very, very long time - but he is surprising incautious, considering just how nefariously deep he is with the First Interior Squad. He doesn't trust many people, but you're a little miscreant from a well-respected Garrison family, and have enough friends in good standing to get cushy service hours in Wall Sina, so he isn't too harsh with you.

"I have better things to do... " he trails off for a moment when he lets your hands go, and you respond by filling the space with your chest, and his thoughts black out for a moment, and he's suddenly on the backfoot, walking backwards into the interrogation room.

You give him a dark little smile, eyes glinting in the dim, moody lighting of the dank chamber, but once he regains his footing, you're unable to push him further. Again, though, Djel does not push you off, and his furrowed expression has melted away to a surprised one.

"I hope there's space for me on that list," - you almost gagged a little in the back of your throat from the corniness and overall disgusting nature of your words. You change gears, and shift your lips into a stubborn pout - you're pushing your luck as it is, but you decide to take a leaf from the page of the some of the sorts of people you'd endured university with.

Daddy's money, hasn't-ever-faced-real-consequences-or-hardships, trust fund babies who didn't understand why poor people couldn't just _get more money._ You're conscious of how empty-headed you sound as you gaze at him, but that's the aim. Empty-headed, non-threatening, spoiled little Garrison-baby is what you're going for, and you're laying it on _thick_.

"Y'know, that Ralph fella, he's always doing comin' onto me, and offering, and lifting up my skirt, I think you're friends," you give a mock put-out sigh, but force yourself to sound like it's merely an inconvenience and not something that boils your blood and makes you feel sick to the gills. "-It always comes across quite desperate because he does it so much, but _you_...." you trail off.

_Is he even buying any of this?_

"You interest me, 'cause you haven't looked my way once," you sound utterly offended, egotistically so, in fact - to sound like the sort of person whose seldom ever told they're wrong and is utterly entitled to all the attention they desire. "I'm wondering if I should be offended or not, Mister Sannes-Sir," you tilt your head and make a point to breath in heavily, causing your chest to heave against him in a purposeful manner. 

"Ralph's always been a little handsy," Djel says after a moment of contemplation, he gives you a proper look over now, firstly at your face, before plunging his eyes downward with a raised brow. You're wearing a little button-down and a long skirt, but the buttons are little bit more undone than would be considered modest, and it's certainly more cleavage than you'd expect to see on a civilian in daylight hours. "- It gets easy to dismiss after a while, so I'm afraid I... must have overlooked you," though _how_ , he isn't sure - you're downright foxy, he muses, so he's a little bewildered on why you appear to be coming onto him, especially if you had no intentions of asking to leave early.

"Mm, well, it did make you a little mysterious, so I'll forgive it," you smirk, again, trying to temper back the feeling of nausea from the overall experience, but it now seems Djel is, apparently, slowly buying into your flirtatiousness, which you'd honed to an art in your bar career. 

"And I quite like... like that, ya'know?" you give him a playful look, and smile up at him, your chin pressed lightly against his collarbone, as you're uncomfortably body to body. Well, uncomfortably for you, less so for Djel, who now seemed to be paying attention to you. "Mysterious. Dangerous too, if the state of that guy is anything to go by," you give him a conspiratorial look, and say something that finally clicks with him, and convinces him of your advances.

"Daddy would be furious," - it clicks - you're one of _those girls._ The sort that get paid tuition to Einrich College and roll around with rough and tumble labourers and men who're bad for their health just so they can rebel against their family's expectations. It makes sense, working in Wall Sina and so close to nobility, it's something Djel has seen, just not something he thought he'd be a direct recipient of.

"Well, I'm just doing my duty to the King," Djel says coolly, "-dangerous is part of the territory for preserving the peace," - when you continue to smile at him, pushing up against him once more, it's enough.

"Now and then, that also includes dealing with little miscreants like you," his tone seems less abrasive now, and there's an oily purr in his tone that makes you want to back away on instinct, but you fight it.

When you catch him looking down your cleavage, you realise you've won, because he decides to see just how willing you are to keep up this little act of unwise rebellion, sticking it to whatever powers got you dumped in the precinct to begin with.

"I want to know how well you follow orders, get on all fours and get scrubbing," he walks out, and comes back with your water bucket, sponge, and rag - noticeably leaving the mop behind, expecting you to canvas the blood soaked room on all fours, dragging your long skirt along the ground as you do.

Feeling like you'd been dropped into a particularly disgusting, bad preamble for a porno, you drop to your knees, and cringe a little in the base of your stomach when Djel's voice cuts through the air.

"Slowly, first," - he's smirking, arms folded and looking down your shirt as you scrub at the blood soaked stone floor with both hands pressed into the long sponge, watching the way your chest moves with the rhythm of each scrub. 

"Good girl," it'd be hot if literally anybody else said it, but it makes your skin crawl, his breathy, oily, appreciative tone is inherently revolting, but you swallow the bile in your throat as you wash the sponge in the bucket once it becomes logged with blood, and wring it until it's a pale shade of pink and as close to clear as it'll get, before sitting up a bit, and feeling every inch a disgusting sort of person as you wring it out just above your chest, allowing the stained water to soak through the white button down in a way you've clocked onto is aesthetically pleasing. You hold the man's gaze - letting him know it's intentional, and resist the urge to scrunch your face up in horror when he licks his lips at you a little subconsciously.

_I can't believe this passes for sexy around here, -_ comparatively, you have most certainly done worse, especially online, but at least you'd been physically attracted to the people in question, and they weren't morally bankrupt, old, torturers, for a start. Here, the bar seemed lower for what qualified as flirtatious at least, and a lack of exposure to pornographic materials beyond literotica and actual sex workers made it so it was quite easy to get the attentions of someone through sensual means, anyway.

Your scrubbing takes you close to his long, tall legs, though thankfully he's just tall enough that you're not totally head level with his groin, it's still too close for comfort, but you look up at him - knowing exactly what it looks like.

He looks down at you, again, too lecherously for you to not feel utterly exposed despite your skirts modesty, and unlike Ralph, Djel's one saving grace is that he hasn't forcefully upskirted you with his boot like a bratty schoolground bully.

"I'm a lot more fun after a few drinks, when we finish up here, maybe we should have a few?" you blink at him innocently as you say it, but the word fun appears to take on a more salacious meaning, which Djel immediately picks up on.

He's quiet a moment, and then smirks again.

"You'd better get scrubbing then,"

* * *

Leading on Djel Sannes was a pretty dangerous play, especially after witnessing first hand the kind of tortures he's capable of inflicting on civilians, and purposefully withholding a paper trail when doing so - but it also tells you he's the right guy. Ralph seethes, of course, but Djel is able to easily able to tell him to mind his hands, and that you'd made your choice. They take you to an MP bar which is simply called The Fox, and it isn't long before you're being plied with drinks.

Luckily for you, you'd gotten a lot better at holding them since you'd started drinking Eldian alcohol back at Warmaidens, so you're matching Djel and goading him into more, trying to ignore the slithering, discomforting feeling of his hand on your knee under the table. It pays off, though - eventually, anyway, because a game of _Never Have I Ever_ betrays more than just the general promiscuity of everyone playing - which is the usual result, and it turns into you leaning heavily into the role of bordering psychotic little trustfund girl whose so unchallenged by the mundanity in their life that they're hungry for more and more risky exploits.

Djel, conscious of his age, and his looks, and getting drunker than you were, ends up delving into his riskier exploits - and you, well - you start diluting your drinks discreetly with water, or outright tipping the alcohol discreetly into an unbussed table whenever Djel wasn't looking, and replacing it with water from your carry-on under the table. You make a mental note of everything you can, but it becomes apparent - very, very quickly, that Djel Sannes was a hit agent. He bragged that he answers directly to the Royal Assembly, and that to him, Nile Dok was just a useless figurehead - "As useless as that Scout commander," - were his exact words. It wasn't difficult to get Djel to rant about his distaste for the Survey Corps, and his opinion on where their funding should go - it was easy enough that you'd have to gently goad him back to the original question, and purr out.

_"Most dangerous thing you've ever done?"_

He smiles a cruel smile that is entirely teeth, and shrugs, saying he genuinely doesn't know, but, having just finished a rant about the corps, clearly has them on his mind, and then blurts out an answer, whilst you slip a rolled up sheet of paper from one of his pockets under the pretense of rubbing his leg, and slip it into your stocking.

"Nah, actually. Killing Wilhard Smith. Ha, when that pomade soaked idiot son of his made commander, I thought he'd have come for me for sure," he snorted before wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "-but deep down, I guess he's like the rest of 'em. Nose in the wrong place. Wasting their time and the brains their parents gave 'em instead of giving a shit about what happens in the Walls."

You feel your stomach drop, the name is unfamiliar, but the context tells it all.

You don't know who Wilhard Smith is, but you have a pretty good guess.

_This man is incredibly dangerous and I need to get out of this situation, **NOW**!_

The hand on your knee travels up - and you feel yourself panicking, because you didn't think clearly on how far to carry the charade through, or how you'd get out of it, or just how far you'd go if you couldn't.

You'd been sending out some pretty strong signals, after all - but now, as though a gift from the heavens themselves, saving you from having to use the bathroom excuse a third time to excuse yourself from his touching, the door to The Fox swings open.

And in steps Senior Officer Dennis Aiblinger, reporting in from his excursion to Wall Rose and having had a long, boring meeting with Commander Nile Dok. In any other circumstance, you'd have freaked out about your cover being blown - but right now, you'd be glad for it to be over.

"Shit!" you turn to Djel, eyes wide "-that's daddy's friend, and he's gonna lose it when he sees me here with you!" you jump up suddenly, but not before leaning down to his ear.

"I'll see you tomorrow okay? I can't get caught doin' this again or daddy'll cut me off," - you ignore Djel's confused and irritated protests, and bolt towards the familiar figure, and once you see him and leave the older man behind you, your finger flies up to your lips, causing Aiblinger to frown.

"Sorry - don't - don't tell anyone I was here okay? I'm goin' straight home!" your accent, a note thicker, raises a brow from Aiblinger, who then notices the desperate sort of shine to your eyes - and whilst not being the brightest candle of them all, can tell something is up.

"Righhht...." he trails off and looks at the door he just came in through, before sighing. He was looking forward to a drink after a long day, but this is the first time he's seen you since Warner's death, and he has the keen sense that you've somehow gotten into trouble again, because he has no idea what you're doing so far out of Falkshein, within Wall Sina, and importantly, in a Military Police bar that saw very few, if any, civilians.

It couldn't be anything good, so he makes the decision there and then to grab your arm with more force visually than was necessary applied, and walks you out of the bar, noting how your entire body sags with relief once the door swings closed behind you both.

"I'm walking you to the horse caravans to go home, but first, mind telling me what all this is about?" he looks at you - more seriously than he's used to doing, and levels you with a firm squeeze of your forearm as he walks you along and out of sight of The Fox.

"Heaven, am I glad to see you," you exhale slowly, eyes closing with relief as your body relishes in the sensation of the bitter evening air against your skin, as though it's cleansing Djel's touch from your flesh.

"I'm serious, what're you doing here? In The Fox, even?" his tone, utterly flabbergasted more than annoyed, now. "-Start talking, Miss Braun."

You give the brunet a weak, watery, relieved smile, and once out of sight of the pub, and any other MP you could see, throw your arms around his neck, earning a surprised grunt from the still clueless man, who stands utterly still and struggling to process what's going on whilst your body melts against his.

It isn't exactly an unpleasant experience for Aiblinger, but he is confused, face heating up visibly as he frowns over your shoulder, and merely pats your back awkwardly.

"Service hours - but it is a long, _long_ story - and I think me and you need to find a bar outside of Wall Sina to get into it. C'mon, I'll buy you as many free drinks as I can squeeze," you say, your tone full of whispered relief.

You had Aiblinger at "Free drinks" - who merely scratches his head in confusion once you let go, shrugs, and follows your lead.

What you miss, however, was a shadowy, tall, discreet figure, with a wide brimmed hat cloaking his face, who had silently followed your steps from the bar, to the horse caravan.

It seems you're not the only person doing a little spying.


	10. Being Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ///ehhh not my strongest chapter but it's p big, had a massive caseload on and will do every day now so my brains kind of (FART) so i hope u like it

_Chapter Ten_

**Being Human**

Senior Officer Dennis Aiblinger is the first and only person in the entire military to be present when you stand before Premier Dhalis Zachary, and are finally pulled out of your deep cover. It was simply unsustainable now, all things considered. The older man is behind his desk at a headquarters based in deeply within Stohess. It's certainly more lively and developed than you're used to, and it's Dennis who guides you there, as he's returning to his normal post, after the pair of you layover for the night in the first tavern on the other side of Wall Sina. To be perfectly honest, Aiblinger doesn't know the First Interior Squad terribly well, but he's had meetings with the likes of Roger Klein, who was an older, middle-aged man, with a shaved head and seemingly collected attitude, but he's as uncomfortably rotten as they get. A senior officer is no stranger to the force applied by the Military Police, but what he knows of the First Interior Squad is, the deeper in you get to Wall Sina, the more ruthless they seem to get. Aiblinger is, as a result, extremely uncomfortable with the nature of your role, even more so that you'd been flirting with Djel Sannes, a man who, just from word of mouth as an uncomfortable open-secret, has a sizeable body count that no one knows the complete number for, but is most certainly one of the more dangerous seasoned police.

"I'm taking you to the Premier tomorrow morning, this is too dangerous for a civilian, I'm headed back to Stohess and he'll be in his office there overlooking my narcotics report," is what he'd said the night prior - one of the more sensible decisions Aiblinger had ever made, but he couldn't help but feel oddly responsible. Maybe it's your unrelenting kindness that's burned into his memory, or you just have a way about you, he's not sure - all he knows, is that he can't leave you to fend for yourself after fishing you away from the likes of Djel Sannes, and truth be told, you don't know how you'd back-peddle on the signals you'd given out or how you'd dig yourself out of the hole you'd made trying to squeeze the man for intelligence.

Stohess is some distance from the Hermina outskirts where Falkshein resided, and it's certainly more developed than you're used to - though certainly less clean and polished than the interior. There are larger, more imposing structures than what you're used to from the area surrounding Warmaidens, and there's a lot of busy people constantly brushing shoulders or otherwise filling the atmosphere with an air of importance. It's certainly busier than the sleepy little shady township of Falkshein, and if you weren't hungover, you'd have been appreciating the different city a lot more than you were, as it reminded you of your old university town. 

Aiblinger had gotten the Premier to see you relatively easily, and remained present for your meeting after you quietly revealed that he was aware of your cover. If the Premier was disappointed at the fact it had been blown, he didn't show it. His expression doesn't change in any noticeable fashion, and instead, he simply closes the folder of work on his desk, and rested his chin over his steepled hands, gazing at both you and Aiblinger over his glasses. 

"I should hope you have something for me," he doesn't convey disappointment, but there's expectation in his eyes. "After all that trouble," he reclines back, and you nod slowly, before glancing warily at Aiblinger.

When the Premier doesn't dismiss him, you make a snap decision to withhold at least some of what you'd found - you'd have preferred to have spoken to Erwin before talking to the man, because you're still uncertain as to how much you're able to trust him, if it all. In the future, you know you can - at the very least, you can trust Premier Zachary to make a decision in the best interests of humanity, but right now? You're uncertain, and the same goes for the Commander of the Military Police - Nile Dok, or you'd have tried to seek his input on some of the questionable ongoings of Wall Sina's largest precinct.

"Several members of the First Interior Squad have been taking in civilians and not making arrest records, and exercising enough force to kill, but not providing any accountability I don't think, I have names," you say, before pursing your lips a bit and pushing your discomfort aside - there's more, clearly, but the Premier doesn't push you, and lets you speak freely. 

"I um - I don't know if anybody agreed to it, either, but I've also seen documents that were put in the archives get taken out and destroyed. I assume someone has ta say yes to stuff like that, but - well, it seemed off," this seemed to get his attention a little more, as the older man leans forward, frowning - matching Aiblinger's wary and surprised expression. 

"-and uhm, they're usually unaccounted for, for large periods of the day. I don't know where they go, but I know it's not on the schedules you talked me through, Premier," you said, ignoring how the paper you'd swiped discreetly from Djel Sannes felt like it was burning a hole in your pocket. "I erm, I also have it on reliable authority from Officer Djel Sannes that these orders aren't from Commander Nile, considerin' him little more than a figurehead, so I'd assume a lot of what the First Interior Squad does isn't with his knowing," - this seemed to gain a sharp inhale through the Premier's teeth, and then? Silence.

So, you start giving him every name you can remember - every name you remembered from the Military Police bringing civilians into the precinct, who do not emerge the other side. You give him names of every member of the First Interior Squad that you have confirmation of taking part in this, and every word seems to make the Premier's frowns and wrinkles deepen almost imperceptibly, as though you were actively piling burdens to his bones.

When you finish, the Premier holds his hand up to ask for silence, while Aiblinger looks silently pale, colour drained out of his youthful features. 

"Enough," and this, it seems, is where the Premier makes a decisive action, and gives out a long, tired sigh. "- Sannes has an unconfirmed, but supposedly high body count that has never been able to stick to his record. I don't even want to know how you got those names out of him, but I'm withdrawing you from your task effective immediately. This is more than sufficient for the audit. Was there anything else?" you ignore the pointed question, or the sensation of the pilfered bit of scrunched up paper in your pocket and smile benignly at the man, feeling distinctly like he's somehow peering through your skin as you stand there and keep more information away from him for moment being.

"No, sir," - you say, looking at him squarely in the eye as you speak.

Until you were certain what you were doing with your knowledge, and how reliable Premier Zachary was - and importantly, if he'd feel the need to act on it, in a way that could be detrimental or not, you weren't going to tell him everything. Not yet.

"Then consider your service hours complete, I'll investigate your claims as discreetly as I can, especially if Commander Nile is unawares, as this indicates a higher level of forethought that could result in serious trouble if I were to keep you stationed at the precinct," he sighs, and you know immediately that he is likely assuming it's the Royal Assembly - the man's no fool, he may be old, but he's quite sharp. You give no indication that you've followed his line of thought though, and merely shrug, and smile gratefully that your hours are done. 

Just like that.

"In recognition of your services to us, and your proven reliability - I have done a little background check on you, as much as records could allow - whilst you've been living as Miss Ermann," he folds his hands over each other, and looks at Aiblinger briefly, then you.

"Sir?" you panic a little, naturally - but it appears that the Premier is more than content to believe that your records were easily lost in the masses of the populace who had been unceremoniously dumped in a phoney mission to recover Wall Maria, simply to ease the burden of the famine from the loss of agricultural land to the titans.

"By all accounts, you're apparently," he fixes his wire glasses up his nose, and raises a brow at you "-exemplary - and with what you've managed to glean from Sannes, I would be inclined to agree. I'm aware you've been made inheritor to a business, so please consider my words carefully, I would like to keep you in this sort of role," he pauses, observing your unreadable expression - he'd mentioned it in passing briefly, of maybe having you continue to serve him in some assisting capacity, but you hadn't thought about it too much, hoping you'd get everything you'd need before you got forcibly pulled out of deep cover. Hells with that, it seemed. Annie, Bertholdt and Reiner had left no breadcrumbs. No obvious ones, anyway.

"I'm in need of an aide, and pulling a soldier from active duty isn't ideal, and for situations like the need to discreetly audit the main MP precinct, I don't always need someone whose been through our training corps, and is easily recognised - nor do I necessarily need someone whose been institutionalised to the point of being unable to point out problems. I need fresh eyes, and someone with a keen sense for justice, and capability," he looks at you expectantly when he says that, and you feel your heart jump in your throat.

Well, it certainly beat the idea of forcing yourself through Shadis and his boot camp for the next three years to keep an eye on the titan shifters, or try to get to them before they'd assail Trost. It did mean, however, you had to get creative with whatever power this position would lend you. This way, you think, you can at least keep the Survey Corps abreast of things they'd need to know, and maybe, if you can get away from the Premier long enough, you can use your influence in a way that'll throw a spanner in the works of the Warriors. 

It's all maybes, but right now, it's all you've got - and you're not entirely sure you'd survive 104th.

"I'm.... flattered, sir," you say, realising both he and Aiblinger are looking at you expectantly. "I'd need to discuss it with Luther," - though you suspect, just from how much research the Premier has done, that a soldier may have already done so, and extoled the virtues of being his aide.

Fuck, what a mess. You'll need to figure out how it all works with Warmaidens. You turn enough profit to hire help now, it's just finding the right help, you suppose.

"Naturally. Think on it - you won't have rank, not formally - as you won't have done basic, but you'll be serving the office of the Premier, so you'll be representing me, and at points, with my blessing, sharing my rank - if you think about it like that. I'm old, Miss Braun, and I'm stretched very thin. I simply don't have the time to be spread across three regiments whose commanders are all at different axis points at any one time, and serve the Royal Assembly. That is why I need someone of good character to represent me, and according to Commander Erwin, you're the best sort," - this, is the statement that makes you flush a deep sort of colour, mostly because you didn't expect the man to be so no-nonsense about it, or place as much stock as he does in the commander's opinion.

You also miss the widening of Aiblinger's eyes, and his questioning expression, as he's stood behind you, like a faithful shadow.

"I don't know what to say," because you don't - how does one respond to a character reference like _that?_ "If - if I accept, and I - we share a rank of sorts... when I'm doing things on your behalf, and representing your office, can I..." you frown, trailing off - you didn't know if you'd ever be in the main precinct again, but it was a healthy bet, and you couldn't imagine the deception would go down very well. 

"Can I have a soldier with me when I have to visit the Interior or act on your behalf? I've no issue dealin' with soldiers as my equals," you glance at Aiblinger, flashing a tiny smile for the smallest of moments, before looking back at the Premier "-but representing a rank above them who hasn't served is another question. I'd quite like the backup of someone whose been through basic, especially if I'll have to apologise for the discreet monitoring," you grimace, and at this, the Premier nods - it's not a bad request, and he's willing to grant it, if it means keeping you as his assistant.

It seemed you'd passed a secret test of his, and done so with flying colours.

"If you accept, you'll have nothing to fear from the likes of Djel Sannes, or any other First Interior Squad member, in fact, if you do say yes, it'll give you some immunity - and lords forbid, if anything were to happen to you, the finger would immediately pointed to them," he says, which, to be honest, you didn't even think about. Accepting a position as assistant to the office of the Premier is, in a way, how you secure your safety after doing deep cover, rather than simply hoping they never see you again, nor attempt to track you down. "I'll also see to it that you have whatever you need, and get you trained independently, if that'll ease your concerns."

Well, when he puts it like that....

It's not really a choice, is it?

* * *

It'd almost be endearing if it wasn't so utterly annoying when fighting off the remnants of a hangover - but Aiblinger does _not_ stop asking questions. It's funny, to you, what he chooses to get hung up on. You'd really, honestly, thought he'd be preoccupied by the Premier's allusions to the fact the Royal Assembly or an equally imposing power are clearly using the First Interior Squad as hit agents.

Instead, Aiblinger seems entirely caught up in Commander Erwin's character reference for you. He seemed to struggle with the idea that you'd managed to shoot up so high in the man's esteem when you aren't a serving member of the forces, and Aiblinger views Erwin as an entirely unsexual, unromantic being, so the nature of your relationship doesn't quite click at first. It made spending time with him in Stohess a little strange. It would have felt like an odd, impromptu date if not for the fact there seemed to be a too-casual, unserious camaraderie that was more akin to some of the friendships you'd developed with regulars back in Warmaidens. 

"You should probably accept," Aiblinger says, as the pair of you sleepily wander the Stohess marketplace afterwards. 

"There's a lot of people who'd kill for a role next to the Premier, and all things considered, it's probably the safest thing for you," with all you'd done to get Djel's attentions, this is a serious argument, you realise. This man confessed to killing so many people, indiscriminately with extreme joy, and had no scruples about doing whatever it took to 'preserve the King's peace' - he could, and has, done everything bad you could possibly do to a person.

You do your best to chase away the thought of his eyes on your body, and hands in your lap, distracting yourself with the market, tugging Aiblinger's sleeve so you don't lose him in the throng of bustling citizens.

It's a bazaar of far more refined produce than you're typically used to seeing, though you wouldn't call it artisan, and there's a lot more opportunistic thievery than even in the seedier parts of Falkshein. It's likely due to the fact there's just so many more merchants, and so much more on display, but it's a welcome distraction to the interior, and you could finally spend some of the money that you'd earned from your work back in the bar instead of pay for an endless amount of carriage rides.

Aiblinger is, despite his many glaring faults - his penchant for on the clock gambling, drinking and regular delegation of important tasks so he can slack off, a good person - maybe even a bit of a gentleman. He had, without saying - paid for your night, as well as his own, in a small inn just beyond Wall Sina. You'd paid for drinks, as promised, but after absorbing your chilling, stressful interaction with the likes of Djel and Ralph, he doesn't even let you _consider_ paying for your room. The following morning, he even patiently puts his duties aside (though in reality, he's using you as an excuse to avoid them) - and guides you around Stohess, sharing his soldier rations to ebb the residual hangover and serve as breakfast. 

"Hey, hey - don't let go, you'll get lost," he doesn't seem too phased as you sheepishly put away some much needed feminine hygiene products and general emergency supplies you'd otherwise have to ride further out of Falkshein to get at a competitive price. "Oh, girly stuff," he says, as it dawns on him, and he scratches the stubble on his cheek awkwardly, half glancing at you, then away, mostly for your sake, so you can pack it discreetly in a satchel, which is rapidly running out of space. "-Right, erm, that's fine - just keep hold of me yeah? You're kinda short, I'll lose ya in the crowd," you frown at this, you're not _that_ short, but it seemed the quasi-Germanic adonises of this world just came up taller naturally.

"I'm not that short, I'm only slightly below average at best, and solid average at any shoe with a heel, I'll have you know," you said, with an annoyed exhale. "We can't all be bloody--" you gesture vaguely at his long, slender legs "-leggy 'n such - so make yourself useful and see if you can find me a place that sells any hair stuff," - which earns you an eyeroll and a smug smirk as he quickly tugs you in the direction of a stall no less than four seconds after you ask, easily peering over the crowd.

It was almost easy to forget the immediate trauma of the night prior, which you think was probably Aiblinger's goal (other than finding a reason to shirk his duties, anyway). The lively city was a welcome diversion from the seedy quietness of Falkshein, and there's a lot more going on in terms of diverse businesses, rather than just one tailor, one cobbler and one candlemakers. The stalls have even more than the brick and mortar buildings, and you find arrays of different sorts of bottled and jarred pomades, and hairbrushes and combs of various sizes for head hair and beards respectively. Temptingly, there's a smaller section of makeup products, but they all seemed far too expensive, and you'd spent so much already that you don't eyeball it for long.

The owner, however, a rather warm seeming sort of woman, much older and broader than yourself, catches your look, though, and immediately begins showing off some of the rouges and colourettes. 

"Oh, no that's much too bright for anything before midnight and you seem far too proper. Now _this_ \- ohh you would look positively radiant. My - with that tan of yours - oh, just give it a little go," you don't think the sample is perhaps, the most hygienic practice, but there's so few people buying it that the sample jar seems undisturbed, and you grimace at the lady's finger as it smears a dark, absolutely decadent shade of red against the skin of your hand to test, inviting you to put it on your lips. You, remembering many old history classes, eye the tub with some suspicion and resist the urge to rub it off in case it had lead or anything equally awful in it. 

"What's in it?" you ask, sceptically, only for the lady to smile benignly.

"Mostly beeswax - crushed red flower-- " she starting rattling off a list of thankfully, non-poisonous or irritating material, and encourages you to put it on your lips. She clearly doesn't have enough women buying it, most of them overlooking it out of modesty, price concerns, or that it's simply not for the working classes. It's spreading, of course, but slowly - and she's clearly doing her best to make it accessible, but you find yourself lost in your own reflection, as she helpfully has a hand mirror hanging off a small, firm rope for exactly this purpose. 

It looks _good_ , it draws your lips out and emphasises your mouth that pleasantly matches your complexion, but mostly, you find yourself lost in your reflection. For a moment, you forget where you are, and for just a moment, it feels like you're gazing at somebody else - a you before you were dragged somewhere so unforgiving, and without your creature comforts, a _you_ who had time to embrace self-care towards your own being rather than just for everybody else. It reminded you of a _you_ who had time for yourself. The girl who could just pop down to the local chemist and buy makeup to try out with your younger female cousins. It - it's silly, but actually holds some significance, and is a vestige of a forgotten time, and strangely, it brings you into your own skin - you feel, for a moment, _human_ \- and not the girl with a million secrets.

"Oh, thank you, young man! Aren't you a lucky lady?" the merchant coos, her voice jars you out of your reverie, and you hear Aiblinger drop coins into her hand before you catch it out of the corner of your eye, and him awkwardly taking a fresh jar of colourette, thrusting it into your hands over the sounds of your protests.

"Whoa! It's so expensive - Aiblinger!" your voice is a strained, high and awkward pitch as he drags you away from the stall before you make a scene or try to return it. "-What's - why?" - you let out a series of confused sounds, to which he just raises a thin brow at you.

"You didn't see the look on your face, didya?" he asks, rhetorically. There's an awkward blush on his face, because in truth, he's not naturally the random-act-of-kindness sort, he isn't actively cruel as many of his colleagues in the Military Police may tend to be, but naturally giving isn't how anyone would describe him. "-if I took you away from there without buying it, I may as well have gone and stomped on some children while I was at it. _Honestly_ ," he scoffs, as though he's deriding your fixation on the small luxury, but you can tell there's no real malice in it. "Chin up now yeah? No more moping about the interior,".

You thank him profusely, and slide the tub away, before wrapping your entire hand around his wrist, rather than limply hold his sleeve, as you had been doing. You don't want to give him the wrong idea, but you'd always been rather open with your friendships, and rarely ever changed your physically warm nature unless it was to make the other person more comfortable, yet, oddly, it felt as though Aiblinger just seemed to _get it._

It was a little more forward-thinking than you'd expected from him, to be honest.

"Your next few meals at Warmaidens are on the house, between this, the robbery incident, and you bailing me out of The Fox last night, I owe ya one," you squeeze, and he just smirks at you, though you see a genuine sort of glimmer in his eyes that you swear might be genuine affection despite his next few words.

"Just don't forget about me when you're all cozied up to the Premier," ah, then it clicks - you'd be a useful person to know, if you accept, and yet - somehow - you cannot help but feel that it might just be a cover for one simple fact.

That Dennis Aiblinger is, in fact, kind of a nice person.

* * *

_{ 3 Days Later }_

It takes three days of deliberation and an actively hiring notice for Warmaidens before a decision is reached, with Luther still as a bar floor manager, and you as more of a hands off sort of role, maintaining inheritor status for if and when the time came, the decision was made. When the matter of your safety was in question, Luther refused to entertain the notion of you refusing the role, and had half a mind to tear strips into you for just how much you'd taken on as Ermann, and the fact you'd knowingly and willingly gotten yourself involved with a man as purportedly dangerous as Sannes, despite his warnings. Once he'd finished being furious with you, he was quick to begin moving and flitting around you - much the way he had when he'd first scooped you off of the street. This time, though, he's helping you get ready for your first ride into the Survey Corps headquarters since your first and only visit for service hours.

"I never had the heart to get rid of it, but I think it'd be more use to you. Didn't wanna pawn it off and I don't know how much any of this shit goes for," is what Luther had said, when he thrusts his wife's old styling products from their shared dresser towards you. Greta had always wanted to pass on those sorts of things to a daughter or niece, neither of which they were blessed with, but the gesture isn't lost on you, and without even thinking - especially as he so paternally dries off your freshly cleaned shoes, the words simply fall from your lips carelessly before you realise what you've said.

"Thanks dad," - and the silence that follows makes your heart drop. You'd expected it to feel like accidentally calling a teacher your parent in school, or something equally mortifying - but with all the losses the Braun family had sustained, you just feel your stomach clench in cold anxiousness. Luther's back was turned to you when you say this, and he slowly turns around as you open your mouth to quickly apologise, or brush it off with a joke, only for him to level you with an unreadable expression.

"Birdy," his voice sounds unsure, uncertain - not something you're used to hearing from him, and you hold your hands up in surrender, ready for his typical, blistery abrasion. He walks into your space, ignoring your hands, brushing them to your side so that he can hold your face from either side of your head, his large hands mostly immersed in your hair in a manner that musses it up even more. "You can call me that, if you - if ya want," he says, finally getting the sentence out, before trying to sound a little more like his regular self, and like your little slip hadn't completely shocked him out of his skin. "-brat," - as he lets go of your face, shaking his head to himself.

He had entertained the notion, or even letting you call him grandad - the way Warner used to, and it felt even more appropriate now you'd taken on the family name, but to suddenly take the place of a guardian who had been with you when you were a baby? He isn't sure he's earned the right, but when he sees the way your face lights up in surprise, relief and happiness, he doesn't have the heart to bring up how strange it feels to take somebody's place in such a way. It isn't unwelcome, but he does wonder, for a while, just what sort of upbringing you had, when a guy as abrasive and cantankerous as him, is so lovingly accepted and wanted as a fatherly figure.

_'Greta would have loved her,' -_ he thinks, watching the way you nervously toy with a rather imposing looking curling rod, causing him to chew back a smile. This is how he knows he cannot lose you though, not after Greta, not after Warner, and certainly not after today.

He can lose everything, but Heavens, he couldn't lose you - never you.

That's why he takes it so very seriously when your safety is in question, and prepares you as best as a slightly out of touch, older man can best try. He doesn't know much about fashion, and he'd never dressed a daughter in his life, but he is every bit as supportive as he can manage, bringing your shoes, and gently fixes the hat on your head once you've finished up. 

"And like all Brauns, you've scrubbed up decently," he says, with no small amount of pride as he walks you to a carriage. In truth, you've kept a lot from him - he knows this now, especially after revealing your cover as Ermann, and he has no doubt you're keeping more from him - he remembers how it was to be entrenched in the military, but all he can do is encourage you to make smarter choices. It doesn't mean he isn't sick with worry in the pit of his gut though, and feels a certain discomfort as he places a "NOW HIRING" sign in his window.

_Stay safe, little bird._

It completely slips his mind, for a moment, to mention all of the mail that had piled up - which he'd steadily began sliding under your door, or putting on your bed, and when he remembers - you're already a speck in the distance, on a one way track to the Survey Corps main headquarters.

To tell the truth, if you were honest, finally - with yourself if no one else - you're absolutely nervous. The talk with Luther and the time spent with Aiblinger was good for getting you back in your own skin and out of the Kristina Ermann shaped metaphorical suit, but now you were forced to reckon with yourself - and what you'd gotten into, as Birdy Braun.

You had accepted Premier Zachary's offer of formal post, and all the responsibilities that would come with it. You had to act as though you were deserving of it, and somehow use the accrued responsibility within the next three years to either try and stop the Warriors in their tracks, or thwart the terror attack that would eventually befall Trost - which is how you're choosing to think of it. People you cared about were in danger whenever the Walls were attacked, and these people aren't just nameless, faceless specks in the background, they're real people, with families, mothers, brothers, children - friends, people who'd care if they died. It's an unimaginable burden that you'd tried to convince yourself on multiple occasions wasn't really going to happen, but, the pilfered bit of paper from Djel Sannes, however, tells you that this is not likely.

Things are, despite whatever knowledge you think you have, happening around you, and to you, and your understanding of these events is clouded by perspective and narration. It clicked when you got the pilfered piece of paper - which tells you all you need to know in terms of what's happening in the Interior, and if that much is true, then it's very likely that your understanding of what the Warriors are doing, and planning, is also probably correct. It all lined up after all. There was the attack on Shiganshina. Wall Maria really did fall, and just like what you knew of the timeline, there really was a famine, where a culling of the population was masked as an attempt to recover the fallen wall. If that much is true, it's likely every horrific event to come, is - and your knowledge burdens you with the responsibility to at least try and change it.

It's why when you finally arrive outside of the tall, non-descript building with the Wings of Freedom hanging from every window, you stand as tall as you possibly can.

Just like with the country club kids, just like with the mooting society, just like with the rowdy customers, you have to be bigger than your boots - so to speak - and square your shoulders back with a click.

"Erm - they're not - he's not - expecting you, Ma'am - Miss.." the soldier who greets you is awkward, and clearly unsure if he should salute you or not, and seems to be in two minds about it until you step out of the shadow of the carriage, and your entire visage makes him stand upright, fist squarely jolted against his ribs.

"Take me to him," you make sure your tone brooks no room for argument, the same way you would whenever you were cutting off Hamburg, or any other overzealous drinker, for the night. The boy - whose name you learn is Walter Mueller, seems a little green around the gills if you had to describe him - not someone who really brushed shoulders with anyone higher than Section Commander Ness, and it showed. He hadn't really exchanged two words with Commander Erwin and was more of a backgrounder than anybody who was necessarily noticed by the more seasoned scouts, and usually rode in the centre of any formation beyond the wall.

To be honest, he's not the sort of person you'd picture in the scouts at all. He has delicate, mousy features and seems to outwardly leak anxiety. It becomes apparent as to why when the building comes into view, though - as apparently, the commander has only just returned from a dry run for the eventual 34th expedition beyond the walls, which was planned to be more ambitious than the last - to eventually capture an abnormal titan for research purposes. 

Mueller stands anxiously as you let yourself into the building, vaguely remembering a little of the layout from when Rudolfus showed you around. He flinches a bit when you let out a long, too loud and all-encompassing, jaunty whistle to cover up your nerves. It's a habit you'd developed at Warmaidens, and it was one that most people who knew you, were intimately familiar with, especially as you left for a hunt, or were dragging in fresh game. 

_'Confidence. You belong here.'_

"Down the - the hall, to the left," he walks, but decides to fall back behind you, as he had no real desire to be in the firing line for either bothering the commander, or any of his more seasoned, significantly more respected peers. You nod, and note that it's not the way to the office - but rather, to a large woody, somewhat dark mess hall. There's an array of candles but it seems somehow darker than even Warmaidens before you brought in some more oil lamps, and it's lit mostly by cloud-smothered natural light, trying to push through large, impossibly high windows.

You walk into the open door, leaning against the large double-door frame and lower your whistle when you feel many sets of eyes landing on you. Unlike Warmaidens, it's quite a bit harder to act like you own the place, as you don't actually own the place - and you can feel your palms sweating against your side.

You expected a mess hall full of soldiers along with the commander, but instead, see only a cluster of sparsely spread out scouts, and a table with a familiar head of blond - and another, with people you hadn't seen before, but were easily recognisable, for the most part, as your whistling reduced to a gentle halt, and all that could be heard was the dull clack of your heel as you moved towards the table, and Mueller shuffling nervously behind you, almost like he's trying to hide behind your skirt. There's a burst of hushed whispers and a few looks of wonder, and what could simply be called gormless staring, trying to process your unfamiliar and totally aura-drowning presence once you'd announced yourself to the room with a warning whistle, radiating an atmosphere of muted poise, honed from years of public speaking and service roles.

"Sorry - sir - um, Commander - she just sort of--" Mueller tries to speak, but it comes out quiet and skittish, and dies in his throat when you raise a hand up to silence him, the way you would if too many people were yelling to get your attention at the bar - it felt a little too natural to do, even with your nerves, as the default response leaks out and destroys any notion of you trying to sound less like village backwash from the old world.

"Enough dear, go back to....whatever it is you were doing before I took up all your time," you wave him off airily, not even looking back, trying to project the easy confidence you'd have when greeting an entire bar floor of soldiers. It's the same thing, you tell yourself - only now, you can feel the eyes of what you are certain are the original Special Operations squad - Levi Ackermann, Petra Ral, Oruo Bozad, Gunther Schultz, Eld Gin, and of course, the man you knew the most - on a personal level - Commander Erwin Smith. In person, the special operations squad are more than you'd expected, and yet, are somehow just as recognisable as Erwin and Miche had been. Levi's cool, unreadable expression and hair cut gives him away, which leaves the lighter haired boy with the same expression as Oruo, the only woman - being the doe-like Petra, whose eyes remind you of crackling embers, and both Gunther and Eld, though lesser known, seemed to radiate their own air of quiet self-assuredness.

Mueller looks between you all, before giving a salute and skittering off quickly, relieved to be dismissed, though not totally out of shot of the mess hall, as he too, much like every soldier who'd seen you wander onto base, was wondering one thing.

_Who are you?_

If it wasn't for your familiar whistle, which Erwin had heard so many times in Warmaidens, he would have struggled a little more with recognising you a bit. You're dressed to the nines - more so than you'd ever bothered before a hunt, serving, or going to the interior. You're dressed in a neat, made-to-fit brown coat that ended just short of your knees, and had a cape of brown that separated your upper body from the skirt of it below. Across the breast pocket on the left are three blocky strips of neatly embroidered, familiar colours - a deep red, a military green, and mustard yellow that matched the exact colours of every regiment represented that Premier Zachary's formal coat would adorn when he was holding official talks. To the left, is one badge, rather than the two large pieces worn like diamonds on the Premier's own coat, representing your representative office. It fits your form wonderfully, drawing in at the hips and shoulders, giving you a firm silhouette. Underneath, all he can see is your shoes, and white stockings, which indicate whatever's underneath is likely a shorter than modest dress, or perhaps, just toeing a limit.

Erwin does, however, find himself distracted by the deep, blood red colour of your mouth that bordered so dark it was near mahogany in the dimmer lighting. Strangely, he finds it too easy to recognise you by your soft, swollen lips and gait alone, it's all as familiar as the whistle, even with the upper part of your face delicately shrouded by the shadow of a charming, deep green hat that matched the strip on your coat and the cloaks of the Corps. This is as elegant as he's ever seen you, and yet, it's entirely you - even if it isn't exactly familiar to see you exuding a military presence of any sort, it's still utterly _you._ However strange he may find it, the feeling melts away as quickly as it comes, when your green gloved hand reaches up to flick the brim of your wide-brim hat back, letting the candlelight dance on your features and light up the too-recognisable glimmer of mischief in your eyes - he'd recognise those eyes anywhere, he thinks.

"Well," - you pause, and try to treat it like Warmaidens, at least a bit. It's a mess hall with soldiers - just some you hadn't met yet. Important people, whose opinions mattered - precious people who you wanted to survive, yes, and would be key to preventing a lot of what was to come, but right now? You were just trying to maintain your cool, and flash the commander a smile, tongue flickering over your teeth before you do. Consciously, it's to clean up any smears of errant colourette, but subconsciously - you give off airs like you could easily swallow the room up in your demanding atmosphere, as it felt like (not for the first time) - that you'd sucked all the light and attention in the room solely onto yourself, albeit unintentionally.

Erwin would be lying if didn't admit to himself that there was something strangely alluring about your body language, but wisely doesn't show much reaction, though his eyes flicker to your lips, and then your eyes, and hold your gaze. 

"Miss Braun," he acknowledges you, and you see a hint of a smile - which Levi catches, but only just.

"I seem to have interrupted you lovelies during dinner," you place your hands on your hips, eyes wandering over to their plates, and the fact Oruo had literally paused mid-bite and was just staring at you, spoon hanging a little from his mouth before he recollected himself to act cooller. "Mm. How rude of me. I guess I was just dyin' to see what I'm second fiddle to, hm?" you look over the special operations squad, and hope to God that you're not embarrassing the commander too much, and that he remembers exactly what he agreed to.

"This must be your first love - the special operations squad I hear _so much_ about - no wonder, you're a beautiful bunch aren't you? Brilliant as well, by all accounts," you remain your typically daring self, despite the nerves, and exhale slowly. Petra, surprisingly, has a very visible reaction to this, and flushes in surprise, she seems to recognise your station first, and gets up to salute you, which the others quickly scramble to do, before you hold your hand up to stop them.

"Indeed," you can hear the trace notes of amusement in Erwin's tone, but to the untrained ear, he seems monotone, and continues to level you with his serious expression, and did not get up to salute, and neither did Levi, as he had his eyes trained on the commander's reaction to follow suit. He isn't sure who you are, but he can tell from your attire you're important, but trusts Erwin's judgement on how to react more than his own.

"No need to salute me, I might be representing the office of the Premier but I don't have my own rank. Salute me, don't salute me - it's a choice, but you don't have ta. At ease. I'm just here for the blond bombshell," you smile cheekily, and feel your neck heating up a bit.

You think you might seriously be pushing your luck, but you had a cover to maintain. Making a point of pausing, and glancing at Eld, you then clear your throat in playful exaggeration, trying to reduce some of the tension that had built up immediately after announcing you were representing the Premier's office.

"Sorry, sorry, should have been clearer. I'm here for _my_ blond bombshell," and crudely gesture with your thumb to the nonplussed Erwin, who merely raises a thick brow, but doesn't protest the title - which is honestly what rends most of the mess hall in quiet, contemplative awe and confusion.

"What'd you need Miss Braun?" he maintains a formal tone, which, you think, most people would probably assume he does, even if he is _seeing_ somebody, but you notice that he doesn't hide his smile this time, and that tells you he's not mortified by your performance, at least.

"You, me, in your office," you pause, letting the statement hang for a moment "-after dinner, of course. And ah - oh, actually, I might also need.... Captain Ackermann?" you considered it a lot in the carriage ride up, and whilst you don't plan on over involving him too soon, and would hopefully keep everything relatively under wraps until you've got more intel on the Warriors and the new intake of 104th, you see the black haired, shorter boy narrow his eyes at you, and tilt his head up to look you more in the eye.

He's confused, but doing a bloody good job of not showing it.

"Guessing that's you," you glance at him, and he nods once, but before he can ask you something, you glance back down to Erwin, and give him a little smile of your own. "-no one's in trouble or nothin' - I probably should have led with that, huh? Nah, I just need to talk you through a few things I picked up, and you wouldn't _believe_ the pain in the ass I had trying to go through it with Dhalis," you notice Erwin's slight muscle twitch - the way his expression shifts for just the slightest of moments, when he notices you're now using the Premier's first name, and it isn't something that goes unnoticed by anyone in the room. 

"Oh, and this is neither here nor there - we can sort it later, but I'm also looking for Niklaus Neumann, think his Section Commander is Miche?" you add as an afterthought, which does make Erwin frown, because that is not something he expected to hear. He did expect that you would, perhaps, at some point have information he'd need from the interior, and after Zachary started asking more questions, it was obvious he was going to take you as a permanent aide, but the request for a seemingly random - albeit excellent - soldier, throws him off.

"That's me.... Ma'am?"

You flinch in surprise when you hear a questioning, but loud voice, boom from one of the tables away from the special operations squad, where some of the dregs of the support team were, after doing the dry run. A red-head man with neat facial hair and admittedly handsome features - reminding you eerily of what a younger Luther might have looked like, stands up, saluting, but frowning at you in confusion.

He's clearly uncertain how to address you, but airs on the side of respect, and you discreetly draw in a sharp inhale of air through your teeth.

_And now, to really push my luck with the commander._

"Niklaus Neumann, you belong to me," you say shortly, but your voice easily fills the room as you call over to him, watching as his face melts into further confusion, looking at you, then the commander, then you again.

"Um, sorry, Ma'am? I don't know what you mean," his tone is uncertain, and when Erwin doesn't say anything, you continue.

"Niklaus Neumann, you belong to me now, tomorrow morning you're going to report to the office of the Premier. A carriage will be sent for you and a message to your barrack. You're not in trouble," you falter, and then look at Erwin, your confident expression turning into a cheeky, almost sheepish one, only visible to the Special Operations Squad who are staring mutely, like they're trying to process whatever you're doing and _struggling_.

"Don't worry I'll give him back," a playful wink later, you feel like you've impressed a point - that you have Premier Zachary's office, though you do not, in fact, have rank, and that you - and somehow, the indomitable, untouchable, always-single, infamous bachelor and rigid tactician known as Erwin Smith was _intimately familiar_ with you.

And apparently, lets you get away with murder.

"No doubt. I'll see you in my office shortly," he says, and he seems to deliberate for a moment, because he's keenly aware of all of the eyes on him, and you'd more than done your part by simply being your over-familiar self, but he hadn't reciprocated, at least, not overtly. "I know better than to keep a lady waiting," - he pointedly doesn't acknowledge the wide-eyed and curious expressions after he betrays a light slip of equal familiarity. 

"I'll bet. Have a nice dinner my lovers," and with that, you turn and head out of the mess hall, the confused silence broken only by the sound of your heels, and the jaunty whistle that sails out of the door, all the way down to the commander's office.

It's only when your whistle is out of earshot, that Levi then slowly puts his cup of now cool tea down, and gives the commander an odd look, breaking his casual, nonplussed expression for one of subtle confusion.

"What in the hell have you been doing while we weren't around?"


	11. The Terrible Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /////look at this disgusting 10k C HU N G US chapter abomination i'm passive-aggressively updating while on the clock at work lmao 
> 
> suck my fat asshole, @management.
> 
> sorry if the quality is haywire, not only am i underpaid & highly stressed from work and am considered only a manager in spirit and not in pay, I'm also being stalked by a freak of a man I have cut off for over eight years so between this and that, a long-process house purchase and my mental health, writing is one of my few escapes but i really do feel like despite my best efforts, the quality is a bit fucky as a result, and for that I am sorry, but I sincerely hope you're still enjoying the ride. 
> 
> shameless plug time: I'm on ko-fi, I have a business email and a tumblr I barely use. Peep my profile(s) on here/wattpad for deets. happy reading homeboys ///////

**Chapter Eleven**

_The Terrible Truth_

The burst of murmurs and lowered voices did little to quell the overall consensus of the mess hall, who had launched into debate over why the office of the Premier was making their presence known in the scouting headquarters. They want to know what would be discussed, but it's above their heads, so the muted wonder turns to a more laddish nature, and despite the attempts at keeping it low enough out of earshot, it carries to the Special Operations table easily.

_"How does the Premier get any work done with that little filly around?" -_ there's a few murmurs to this effect, and Erwin can feel the sets of straying eyes landing on him while the soldiers on Neumann's table begin playfully elbowing him in the side, teasing him lightly. Clearly, your presence had made an impression, and he expected to maintain a rather easy cover of involvement - he's a naturally private sort of man, so he didn't think it'd be too difficult, but he didn't expect you to arrive at his door so soon, and - well - looking like _that_. Obviously, the Premier had immediately given you a position that recognised you formally, he can tell that much from the getup, but he'd never seen you look quite so immaculately put together, like you'd put some serious time, efforts and pains into firming the waves of your hair into barrelling curls that were pinned to cascade down your left side, the rest of it half tied up in a loose blue-ribbon ponytail, giving it a neat pulled back look. The lips - _Hells_ \- he couldn't stop looking at them, couldn't stop thinking about them, were they always so full, so soft, and naturally come-hither, had he simply overlooked them in favour of the whole picture of you? He might have done, and in retrospect it's a travesty, but you seemed so utterly unbothered, even unaware, of the wide-eyed, wonderous and admiring looks. You walked in as though you were walking into Warmaidens and to him, it showed. It had you oozing a practiced charisma and confidence that set you apart from the pencil pushers and swathe of uniformed higher up soldiers. The commander tries not to dwell on the thoughts - as they're quite inappropriate thoughts to have about a woman he respects, and considers a friend, but he's human - and not the only person in the room doing so. The difference being, he's maintaining that he and you have a personal relationship that extended beyond friendship, so he doesn't hold back his appreciative stare when you had exited the mess hall, even with the eyes of his subordinates trained on him. 

"I've been making some connections," is how he responds to Levi, who just scoffs with more attitude than can be considered polite to a superior, especially one of such rank. He does, however, let this slide and ignores it completely, glancing at Levi as he casually finishes his soup. "Useful ones, considering we'll be dealing with Miss Braun more than the Premier from this point onward," he adds. "He's been in need of more proactive assistance and is spread quite thinly. You should consider her appointment as good news for us," he addresses the rest of the Special Operations squad now, turning his eyes to the rest of the table. "And I trust that the rest of you will make her feel welcome and assist in any manner requested of you," - one of the men, boys really, who had teased Niklaus is emptying his tray and walking past the commander, and actively flinches when Erwin's sapphire stare lands on him, addressing him suddenly and directly.

"And do so _politely_ , I shouldn't have to tell you, but the Premier's office retains the power to have you scrubbing latrines for the rest of your military career, and I wouldn't be able to overturn it," not easily, anyway, and it's at this that the soldier goes utterly pallid, and nods. When he dumps his tray, he salutes, and scurries off as quickly as his dignity allows. The Special Operations squad barely smother their smirks - Oruo doesn't, anyway, but there's a clear line drawn when it comes to the sudden appearance of the Premier's assistant. 

Your role is to be respected, regardless of an officially unranked status, the office of the Premier supersedes even a commander, though he certainly reserves the right to question and have your actions looked into or instructions verified, if he felt like being contentious - it was obvious Erwin had no such intentions. His words to the young man who had been finishing up, despite being one of the tamer murmured remarks, were a warning shot to everybody in the room and the corps as a whole. Erwin may not have said directly not to remark on you lecherously, but it was clear from context and the severe glance he gave to the young soldier than you were strictly off limits, and any appreciation of your form was best kept out of earshot.

He wasn't threatening him with any punishment, but stating that he simply wouldn't overturn any for such impropriety spoke volumes of his regard for you. He didn't seem remotely bothered by the fact you'd barrelled in and flirtatiously introduced yourself without any cares for too much formality, but naturally radiating a sense of poise regardless. The fact that Erwin did not react negatively, and instead, seemed to have a small, accepting sort of smile flicker onto his features told the room that you had carte blanche to do as you wished.

You announcing your intentions to simply take Niklaus Neumann without any mention of transfer papers, but simply saying - _you belong to me now_ \- and Erwin, seemingly allowing it, only doubled down this fact.

He's quick to finish up and gives Levi a short acknowledgement, expecting that he'll follow when he's done, and begins heading towards his office. Levi, however, is levelling him with a guarded, and still somewhat confused expression, but makes no rush to finish his food. The moment the commander is out of the room, however, the soldiers on the other tables burst into curious, enquiring chatter. The fact you're flirtatious in your address to everybody has thrown off a lot of the soldiers in the Mess Hall, however, causing a fresh ripple of remarks and idle commentary.

"What do you think the Premier's office wants?" Eld asks, ignoring the discourse as mindless white noise.

"Don't worry about it," Levi says shortly - he isn't one for paperwork, but he does have a very high position that lauds him with responsibilities he is at least tangentially aware of, and box checks enough to keep the commander content. In truth, he has no idea why you're there, or what you were possibly needing to go over, that the Premier was struggling with, but he is vaguely aware that every military branch's audit is coming up, and so it may be in relation to that. 

"It's probably audit related, I'll let you know if it's anything we should be concerned about," his statement is final, and no one else asks any other questions, though Petra's voice is very quiet as she hisses something to Oruo, who has more than likely said something off-colour and is probably mid rebuke. Levi tunes it out, and decides to wait a few minutes - he's done, but, he sees the look in the commander's eyes and that hint of a smile that he never lauds strangers, and opts to give the commander, and his guest, a few moments of privacy.

* * *

When Commander Erwin arrives at his office, the door is ajar - which isn't something he does often, as he finds the constant patter of footsteps and soldiers to be distracting when he needs to concentrate, or prepare for another meeting. There is no jaunty whistle that greets him, but, he sees your figure perched atop the side of his desk, and your body reclined backwards to match your arm, which was holding you up, one leg swung over the other. It's not an usual sight - you'd regularly perch yourself on the tables of Warmaidens similarly if you were having more than a brief conversation but didn't want to search for spare seating. On the commander's desk, however, it feels a little like his two separate worlds had finally collided properly, embodied in the very form of you, dressed in the Premier's colours - no longer just the spritely little creature from his favourite watering hole. The commanders office is as neat as you'd expect it to be, with everything having a place, and everything perfectly housed in them. There's swathes of bookcases lining most walls save for the one with the large window and draping curtains that overlooks his desk, and the desk itself is lined with files, folders and pots of ink. There's a chair for the commander to work at, and two opposite his desk, for others to sit across from him when he addresses them.

Notably, you don't bother with any chair. Hell, you look good on his desk, he almost regrets bringing attention to himself when he comes in. He could have easily stood in the doorway, admiring the way the light pours in from the window and hugs your body. The intrusive musing is batted away almost the moment it comes, and he strides in, the sound of his footsteps getting you to turn your head to look at him.

Following your original line of vision, he can see the corkboard on wheels he has in his office with maps and plans pinned to it, and Falkshein marked as a rendezvous point with a red pin. The marked points probably don't make a lot of sense to the untrained eye, but it's easy to see that the little area is marked as a place of importance. 

"I didn't expect to see you so soon," he opens with this, and moves over to you, but doesn't take a seat, and merely stands so that his body is position in front of yours and he can look you in the eye. It's now, without an overcast shadow from your wide brim hat, he can see the faint rings of tiredness around your glimmering gaze. You were always overworked, and before you'd accepted a formal post in the services, you were already the busiest woman he knew, but it's only now that he can see that it's gotten that much worse, as there's a faint dark discolouration beneath those wide, trusting eyes of yours. Looking down at you this closely, he can see every little burdened crease that framed your lashes. That isn't to say you look bad, per se, but he can tell that a lot has changed in a short space of time, the only thing jarring his senses to the fact you haven't changed completely from the woman he first met that cozy night in Warmaidens is how you carry yourself the same, splaying on his desk with all the casualness in the world. It'd be inappropriate - certainly, if it was anybody else but you, and your familiarity and lack of rank allows you to behave as you please.

"You haven't really been sending as much, I thought you were a bit consumed by whatever else the Premier had you assigned to," - you're surprised when Erwin brings that up, because in truth, you'd sent him sporadic little notes, but not wanting to rock the boat or send anything to the interior, and being aware of your lack of literacy, he leaves simple replies that he wouldn't mind being read out, with Luther - who had been keeping them behind the bar and then eventually dumping them in your room. You'd also do the same in kind, leaving a little scribble here and there - with a handful of simple script notes that boiled down to - _sorry, it looks like I just missed you! -_ and a gentle smear of smattered ink or thin pencil sketch of a small bird. Nothing overly grandiose, but reflective of a talent, something that clearly took thought and consideration. For the duration of your deep cover, it looked like you two were just ships passing each other in the night, just shy of crashing into one another. It did, however, make the lies easier to maintain - that you were doing an intimate set of service hours directly in his vacant home, but - well, neither of you had thought too much how those lies might congeal together once you accepted a post for Zachary.

You supposed you'd have to bring that up at some point, but you are confronted by having the commander so easily in your space. It wasn't unwelcome, but there is a certain sort of tension that is suddenly quite palpable, somehow more so than when the pair of you had a stolen moment away in the hot spring. It isn't a stifling one though, and you easily fold one leg over the other, your dress and coat hiking up past your knees pleasantly as you do, revealing more stretches of white, thickened cotton stockings that disappeared up to your covered thighs. 

"No kidding, I got so far in that by the time I reported to Dhalis, he said the information I recovered put me in too much danger to be stationed in the precinct anymore. He pulled me out on the spot," you wait for the negative reaction, the piercing, unhappy stare that you had seen on Luther's face to adorn the commander's own. His expression remains neutral, however, and if anything, you see a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he looks down at you, his arms folded casually across his chest.

"You _have_ been busy, then," he says, and his tone is surprisingly understanding, and the light berating you may have expected, or at least vague disapproval, never seemed to come. "I suppose that would leave little choice but to accept a full position for the Premier," he adds, proving again, that he's as smart as a whip, and even without all of the pieces, he can draw accurate conclusions with fairly little information. 

His words garner a crooked little smirk off of you, that little glim of mischief you're so known for in his mind coming to the forefront. There was some relief in your deep cover being over now, and it is hard not to feel some small measure of pride that you'd managed to obtain any information at all. It's not much, but every little scrap you could get, to give the Survey Corps an edge, would solidify your trustworthiness, and perhaps even change the course of at least some events.

"Maybe, but I think it worked out - I'm actually getting paid a living salary and not splitting my time between running a tavern-inn and helping out at the Horsefair," in theory, this sounds less busy than your ordinary schedule, but a small yawn slip outs regardless. It doesn't need to be said, but the amount of travel done alone from several points would be enough to tire anybody out, he knows the Premier is basing in Stohess at the moment, your deep cover had been in the Interior precinct, and then there was the ride from Stohess, to Falkshein, and the Corps base. You'd been in a lot of places in a short amount of time - and had apparently gotten far enough in your task for Dhalis that he yanked you out of it completely in a shorter space of time than the commander would expect.

"I suppose I can feel a little less guilty about getting you in this role," it looks like you're doing well, tiredness aside. He hadn't seen you look quite so good before, though, if he's honest with himself - you could have shown up in a potato sack and probably would have turned a few heads regardless. You just have a way about you - something that demanded attention and easily filled a room with warmth. 

"Ah, enough of the guilt willya? I made a choice, I get to live with it," you hike up a bit of your coat and dress, fingers dipping past the surface of your stocking, lifting a taut, grey suspender strap from your thigh as you casually pull a thin, folded square of paper out. Not wanting to leave a vital piece of information in a coat you removed fairly regularly without thinking, you don't think twice about slipping it somewhere, where you were always conscious of it against your skin. "If anyone's gotta feel guilty it's me, I'm the bearer of - " you falter, not sure how to define it, in truth, whilst _you_ knew this was important to the future, you don't know how immediately any of it will click with Erwin - because you have knowledge he doesn't. "-well, good and bad news, really," - it's this moment you hear the door click shut, and lean back a little, turning your head to the source.

"Do you need me to wait outside?" the flat, yet casually abrasive monotone cuts through the intimate atmosphere like a knife, you, still holding the folded piece of paper between your fingertips, dress and coat still hiked, stare evenly at Captain Levi, who has his hand resting on the doorknob behind him and a singular brow raised at the both of you.

"Not at all, but I won't keep ya too long," not sensing that you should, perhaps, be a little embarrassed at the immodesty, or the overall position of the pair of you, you casually roll your clothes down, still keeping your leg crossed over your knee, apparently uncaring of what you look like, sitting as boldly as you are on the commander's desk.

"What's this about?" Levi is straight to the point, but polite, you notice - whatever is going through his head, he isn't showing it. He strides towards the desk, but doesn't take a seat, and has a hand placed lazily at his belt, as though he isn't filled with caution and apprehension - because in his experience, interference from above Commander Erwin was almost never good.

"You're in the dark as much as me, Captain," Erwin replied, and then looks back at you, eyes landing on the piece of paper in your fingers with muted curiosity. If he was of lesser patience, he'd have taken it from your hands already, but instead, he maintains the easy patience he'd always had, especially when it came to you. 

"I'll start with the good news, because there isn't much of that going around," you say, hands resting on your knee with the folded paper underneath. "Your audit has come through - I guess someone was on it while I was stationed in the interior," you shrug. 

That makes sense to the pair of them, anyway. Erwin had recently submitted his expense reports, and Levi found himself having to sit through more pencil pushing than he'd ideally like in his day. It's only twice a year, thankfully, and usually he never hears about any outcome unless it pertains directly to the Special Operations Squad in any way, and it rarely ever did. Usually, any refusal of different or larger budgetary requests would squarely land in the lap of the titan research squadron, and be something Hange, and to an extent, Miche, would have to bare the brunt of.

"The good news is, surprise, Survey Corps are generally meeting all conduct standards that their are, 'cept ya low numbers and the thinning after your expeditions. Dhalis is thinking of putting a block on outgoing transferees out of your regiment, so...." you trail off, and Erwin lets out a short sigh - though his expression remains nonplussed.

"Expect a spike in potential desertion prior, during, and after the next expedition. Understood," - when you visibly grimace at the blonds words, he looks at you inquisitively - because he can tell you're waiting to speak.

"Yeah, so, um - I was in Stohess a bit - y'know - getting the details about what Dhalis wants me doing now my cover is blown," you can feel the subtly quizzical look making its way onto Levi's face - he doesn't have the context, of course. To him, you're a sudden, intrusive presence sent directly from the Premier that came seemingly out of nowhere, with a close, playful familiarity with the commander that he can't quite decode. Erwin, as usual, clearly has more pieces to the puzzle and knows more of what is unfolding than Levi does, but all it does is raise more questions.

"Sorry sweetheart," Levi is jarred out of his thoughts when you address him with an uncommon familiarity, the sort that easily rolled off your tongue when you were serving, but causes him to look at you in more apparent confusion. "-I know you don't have any context right now. I promise I'll start makin' sense soon," you say offhandedly, eyes flickering back to Erwin, seemingly oblivious to the sheer strangeness of what treating someone as infamously thuggish as Captain Levi like just another soldier you'd dealt with on a daily basis. 

That, and Levi is fairly certain nobody has ever called him sweetheart in his life, but that was neither here nor there.

"Please continue, Miss Braun," Erwin says patiently, lips twitching a little as you continue on blithely in your uncensored, casual nature that he knows for a fact, most people who don't know who you are, are usually unprepared for.

"Right well, the bean counter has a bean counter - the uh, the fella in the interior who signs off on your budget? Rosen-something," you make a vague gesture with your hands, in truth, you didn't consider him important enough to remember - but Erwin certainly does, and fills in your blank with ease.

"Theophilius Rosenblatt, the Crown treasurer, yes....?" he trails off, and you pick up easily, but not before a second yawn slips out.

"Yeah that guy, well, his assistant, Val got your expense report and apparently you're under budget," - at Erwin's confused look - not an expression you see on him often, you quickly fill him in, because typically, being under-budget is a good thing. "-erm, Mercer Valiant. Cool name, boring job," you add shortly with a roll of your eyes. Naturally, you're getting close with him due to the proximity of your offices, and your lack of literacy is something Dhalis had charged him with remedying as best he can, because he wants you to be able to assist with more menial parts of an assisting role too. 

"- he works across from Dhalis, really nosy. He let slip that with the new recruitment of 104th, spare funds will get reassigned to the training camps, but, that's bad news for you - because it means they're gonna use it as an excuse to slash your budget at the next review," - this, while not entirely surprising, is a bit of a blow - as the Survey Corps are already critically underfunded, though how you obtained that information in an incredibly short time span of what, a few days? 

"That - is not good news," Erwin says, before levying you with a probing look "-though how you got that out of Valiant in - what, a few days since your deep cover ended? I would like to know," though it came out as more of a rhetorical musing that you could probably not answer, though an uncomfortable expression gets both the commander, and the captain's attention.

"Eurgh, well - it's at the cost of going to see a play with the guy," you visibly look uncomfortable, and though it was hardly the high stakes it had been with Djel Sannes, it felt like you were making a questionable track record for yourself, attempting to use people for information in any way that you could. "-He's willing to hold off on sending them up because he knows I've got a soft spot for your lot, as a personal favour to me, but it's still gonna go through - unless..." - and this is where the true nature of your actions make themselves apparent to everyone in the room.

You, keenly aware of what you must sound like when you speak, and now feeling self-conscious (even if the ends justified the means, at least in your head, at the time) - you're visibly cringing and fiddling with a curly end of your hair, pointedly avoiding looking at either male for fear of whatever their expressions might look like. You don't need the judgement, to be honest - you're trying to do them a favour, after all.

"Unless you submit a revision where you're toeing the line by about 3-5% - so you can at least guarantee the same budget next season. I reckon I've got maybe one - maximum two 'something's come up' excuses before those papers have to go out so...." you flush deeply when you look up at Erwin, and see a genuinely surprised expression on his face. Maybe it's just how far you were prepared to go, but the disgust, or general, discreetly smothered judgement you expected wasn't on his face at all.

Levi, however, is unreadable as ever, and cogs are visibly turning behind his eyes when he glances between yourself, and Commander Erwin. Are you his person on the inside, then? He supposes that is what the commander meant when he said he was making connections, but he's thrown into uncertainty when he swears he catches Erwin's eyes soften towards you, at least a bit, as he asks how long he's got.

"That's the other good news, you've got a week, maybe a week and a half? To spend a _lot_ of money, so go hog wild I guess," you pull out some significantly larger papers - hastily copied, it seemed, from your inner coat pocket, which were arguably a lot less urgent, but had taken up all of the space in those very thin, and very few pockets, as it was a little wrinkled and had clearly been, well, swiped or produced in a hurry, detailing the provisional suggestions by Val regarding their budget.

"I think we can do that," Erwin exhales slowly, and then glances at Levi - in truth, he's still not certain why Levi is there, but he already has a few ideas where he can throw the extra funding. The titan research squad could certainly benefit from it, especially in the run up to their more _special_ expedition, which had the express intent of recovering an abnormal titan, ideally within the five to eight metre variety for Hange's longitudinal studies. "Thank you," - when Erwin thanks you, you find yourself feeling somehow more flush, and offer him a shy smile.

"You didn't have to do that, Miss Braun, but thank you," for Levi's benefit, he glances at him briefly, and smiles at you "-as always, you're a consistent friend to the scouts," - he wonders when it'll click, or if it'll click, that this is the same woman they'd just missed when the scouts laid over in Falkshein upon recovery from their last expedition. Levi, however, is more preoccupied as to why he's there, and the piece of paper on your knee, under your hand.

"Yeah well. Soft spots and all," you continue to smile at him, a soft heat radiating from your face that you hope isn't showing up quite so obviously on your complexion. "-and I owe ya one," because you do. You recall his unwavering kindness, and how he ensured you weren't alone when he, Aiblinger and Miche had to pick up the pieces you'd collapsed into after the attempted robbery of the bar. It is a history that Levi doesn't have though, so for a moment, he feels slightly like a third wheel - like his mere presence is somehow preventing something much more intimate between the pair of you, because to him - the tension is seismic, and ever-present.

It's now you turn to the captain, and tuck a loose curl behind your ear out of habit, ignoring the uncomfortable sweat of your palms in the green gloved hands. 

Erwin, you were familiar with, but Levi - well, this is your first real meeting with the man, and that in itself was surprisingly anxiety inducing, especially considering what you were about to disclose. 

"Now, I'm sure you're wondering why I asked for you too, Captain Ackermann," to which Levi nods, a full frown on his face when you sigh, turn slightly, and move your legs so you're sat flat and flush on the desk, and looking directly at him instead. "It's mostly out of professional courtesy, I guess," you trail off, giving Erwin a sideways glance before you begin unfurling the pilfered paper on your knee, and allow both men to come closer to look at it.

So, this could fuck up a few things, but Dhalis is already investigating the actions of the First Interior Squad, so if say, the false nature of the monarchy ends up coming out earlier than intended, Erwin and the corps are going to need to know what's going on, because there's no way the military are going to stand by a false king, this much, you're aware of.

"I haven't shown this to Dhalis yet, I had enough of a pain getting all of the First Interior Squad's audit done, but - they've requested this," - you hear one of the men - Erwin you think, without looking, inhale sharply. What you're holding is a piece of paper taken directly from Djel Sannes, is none other than a draft invoice, and a detailed design of what is unmistakably omni-directional mobility gear, but none like either he, or Levi had seen.

You didn't need to be able to read to make out the picture, and it's Levi who reads out the most obvious text, before looking up at you with his cool, flat stare. 

"This is an invoice for something called _'anti-personnel ODM'_ gear," he still doesn't have all the pieces, but it's now - when Erwin takes the paper from you for a closer look, you fill in the pieces, and resist the urge to reach out with a comforting touch towards the naturally abrasive, shorter man.

"Yeah. First Interior Squad have requested it, secretly I might add. Their commander doesn't know about it. Nobody does. I fed Dhalis back some numbers on how many people they're arresting without warrant and killing discreetly. It's... a lot, and I was point blank told they're preserving the peace of the King, so, someone in the Royal Assembly. It's why I haven't told Dhalis everything yet," you glance at Erwin, and hope to convey just how much you trust the man, in the hopes he'll do the same with you, even with your future knowledge on Premier Zachary and where he falls in terms of the right side of history, you had to behave as somebody who didn't know who to trust, and kept to the role, hoping Erwin would understand just how much faith you place in who he is.

"You haven't told me if I can trust him yet," you feel his blue, ocean eyes looking over you, almost like they're looking inside of you, when you say this, and you refuse to glance away this time, and hold his gaze for a quiet meaningful moment that isn't missed by Captain Levi. "As for why you're here too - besides you being Commander Erwin's best and most trusted," you tilt your head to the side, expression shifting to a gentle, cautious one, eyes softening by a considerable margin, because there's no way what you're about to say is going to go down well.

You'd figured it out the moment you'd seen that Anti-Personnel ODM was already in commission and use, and remembered another fragment of the timeline here. Annie, namely - and her trying to find out what the First Interior Squad is up to because of the hushed meetings with the Assembly. You hadn't been able to catch this in real time, not knowing a date or having more concrete information, but you knew it had likely happened, because the Interior Squad is getting the gear they need specifically to partition off and work directly for the false monarch.

"I didn't have time to do as much research as I'd have liked, but I know the stories, and there's not a lot of Ackermann's around, and Dhalis confirmed a few things about you when I asked. The reason I asked you here is so I can warn you, and because I think you have a right to know, love," there's no way to easily break it to him, and you feel Levi's stare become more intense, and the look he's giving you is hard to distinguish from either impatience or indifference, but his tone tells you everything.

"Know what?" he doesn't react to your casual familiarity, but zeroes in with a firm intensity, because you're visibly grimacing again, glancing at Erwin - who is equally intensely curious, and then back to the captain.

"Kenny Ackermann is operating above ground, and is very likely behind that invoice - members of the First Interior Squad have been disappearing and acting under orders from another party. I overheard his name. I don't know why him, but it's definitely him," you're quick to add, though that part is a lie, and you're using knowledge you shouldn't have, you see Levi's eyes widen slightly, and a mutinous expression start to trickle onto his features, lips curling into a look of utter distaste. "Kenny Ackermann is, for some reason, in bed with the Interior Squad and the Assembly. I don't know why, but they're acting as hit agents. Just...killing people. Not making records either, and I wasn't in deep cover long enough to get a reason outside of 'preserving the king's peace' - so take that however you will," - you know for a fact Erwin has already figured it out, the answer is clear.

Thought crimes. Forbidden actions - either trying to crawl out of the underclass, like those who had tried to escape to Wall Sina to avoid the population culling, or asking the wrong kinds of questions about the world outside of the Walls.

Erwin Smith is intimately familiar, and you can tell just from how his expression has changed to one of naked wonder, looking at you with a quiet, intense studiousness.

"Premier Zachary says he'll be looking into it discreetly, but I thought you should know about Kenny. If your file is accurate, he's your paternal relation, and if the stories are even a little bit true - well - sweetheart I wouldn't want him anywhere near you. I don't know if he'd have cause to come to you, but letting Kenny Ackermann out of the underground is like letting a fox into the chicken coop, so I thought you should know," the implication is there - _so you can stay safe_ \- but you don't phrase it that way, not wanting to patronise humanity's greatest soldier, but the soft look in your eyes, even under the weight of Levi's ferocious expression, tells the room exactly why.

"That's all, Captain Ackermann - and I know I probably don't have to say it, but please refrain from seeking him out," - it's Erwin who speaks up and backs you on this, because he can see Levi moving to answer and whatever unresolved feelings he may have towards his uncle absolutely cannot get in the way of whatever plot you'd wandered into - for the sake of everybody's safety.

"Miss Braun is correct, at least until we have a clearer view on his motivations and a result form the Premier on the actions of the Interior Squad, I would prefer it if you gave the man a wide berth. If he does approach you, I would like to be told," Erwin pointedly doesn't make it an order, Levi notices - because he wants their friendship to say it all for him, he wants Levi to talk to him of his own accord if his deadly familial relation decides to turn up and sow discord, but Erwin also has no desire to field what are extremely complex emotions between the captain and his uncle.

But he would be there after, like the consistent friend he has always been.

"Understood," Levi practically spits this, because he isn't pleased with not being able to just tear strips into Kenny himself and find out what's going on. He understands, even through his anger, that there is more going on than any of them are aware of, and acting on his own could cause a snowball effect. Right now, the advantage is that they know something that nobody else knows they know - and he can concede that, to be honest, you could have just told Erwin and not included him at all. You had told him out of kindness, and what appeared to be concern that he had no idea what he'd done to warrant, but the apparent softness you were so freely extoling towards him made him feel strange, not unpleasantly so, but it's so unexpected that he is forced to acknowledge it for what it is.

_If the stories are even a little bit true - well - sweetheart I wouldn't want him anywhere near you -_ swirls through his head when he looks at you. It's hard to take it as anything but well-meaning, especially with the look you're giving him right now, like you're genuinely worried. It's not patronising, either - but he can see now, in this moment, why you apparently have such an ease with gleaning information out of whoever you're put close to. There's something about you that makes people change how they are, and he can't quite pinpoint it, but being confronted with unyielding kindness, and hearing about _just how far_ you're prepared to go for the scouts, unasked, makes him reconsider his initial judgemental sensation at hearing you manipulating a man for information on the scout's budget.

It's difficult to fire the sharp, irritated and angered feeling at Kenny Ackermann being above ground at you, even with him being ordered to keep a distance. 

"Thanks," he says shortly, surprising you enough that you blink at him owlishly, because it doesn't come across snide, perhaps a little embittered because of his mood, but not ingenuine. 

"Right well, unless the commander has anything for you, you're dismissed?" you glance at Erwin, who shakes head negatively, and allows Levi to make his exit.

When the door clicks shut, and the tension that's built up over the discussion surrounding the invoice feels like it's at its apex, Erwin casually walks over to to the window that overlooks his desk, unmoving when he hears you slide off of the desk and walk up to join him. The pair of you stand in oddly comfortably silence for a moment, and it's now that Erwin decides to press a little more.

"Do I even want to know how you were able to glean so much from the Interior Police? They're infamous among the ranks for not being particularly friendly," he opens his line of questioning casually, none too deeply, but he doesn't even have to look over at you to know you are likely looking very uncomfortable. You had shown that whilst you're extremely capable, and able to get the information you need on any given day, you're clearly not as proud of it as you should be, because you were uncomfortable with how you sounded when relaying it out loud. 

The skies outside had darkened considerably, breaking into dusk hues that would surely melt into pitch black by the time you'd leave, the pair of you can already tell.

"I don't think you do, I've already had the lecture from Dhalis, Luther and Aiblinger, I don't want it from you too, I already know it was stupid and risky engaging so much at the interior precinct, but I had to," you jump a little when you feel the weight of a hand land on your shoulder suddenly, warmth seeping through your coat, dress and skin. You bristle a bit in surprise, and look up - it seemed that, despite however indomitable he seems, along with previous bygone notions of him being a _never-nude, highly-strung-to-a-point-of-untouchable_ are again, easily shattered, just as they'd been when he was so ready to wrap his arms around your waist and share a horse with you. It seems Erwin isn't averse to caring touch, it just isn't something he allows himself to express much, as he so purposefully maintains a mask, and avoids intimacy where possible. The barrier has, however, already weakened a considerable amount when it comes to the pair of you, especially alone - but then again, a session in a hot spring would probably do that.

"You've done incredibly well in a short space of time, and I have nothing but gratitude. I'm just curious, and concerned, because I consider you a friend," not just a friend of the scouts, but he doesn't think he has to say that. 

Erwin isn't one to obfuscate his feelings when it isn't necessary, to tell the truth. He's a man whose as honest with himself as he is to the people around him, so the admission doesn't feel particularly awkward, or incorrect. You, however - well, you don't really know how to register it, because to tell the truth, Erwin, and to a lesser extent, Miche, were warm presences in your life. They were part of the group that took one look at you covered in blood, bawling your eyes out, and didn't leave you to face the consequences. They scooped you up and cared for you, reciprocating with as much intensity as you would, whenever you would open the door to Warmaidens for them. You considered them friends, but it isn't something you'd always just casually enunciate - and you're certain he'd said something like that in the hot spring, but when he's saying it again, and _touching you -_ that seismic unspoken tension rears with more intensity than before. Especially with a lack of a third party presence to temper it in any way, and you understood Erwin to be the kind of man who'd do anything to get what he wants.

What you forget, for a moment, is that he isn't always happy with the cost, and so his concern is very much felt. You feel like he might be worrying about you the way he did for the soldiers whose deaths and injuries had weighed him down, that he had touched on in the hot spring. For a moment, it seems as though the commander might be taking your sacrifices on as his own, and for a while, you don't know how to feel about it. 

"What's done is done, but," you look away for a moment - not wanting to get into the details, because just thinking about it made you feel nauseous, and you'd already done so with Aiblinger and Luther. You're not sure you could bare the thought of the man thinking lower of you for just _how_ you'd gotten Djel Sannes into such a vulnerable, loose-lipped state. "-I had to engage Djel Sannes. I don't know if you know who that is, but he's dangerous," - surprisingly, Erwin doesn't know who he is, at least, from his lack of visible reaction, he doesn't seem to.

That isn't wholly surprising, considering Djel mentioned that Erwin had never once come for him, or looked his way.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the interior squad, I retain distance from them, generally," which, with what you know - you aren't surprised he might, but how did he let go? How did he let go of whatever horrible things he was feeling after the military police slaughtered his father, to just...keep a distance? The conflict shows on your face, however, and you look away, moving into another yawn as the commander's hand leaves your shoulder.

"Right well, Djel Sannes is bad news, one of the more prominent hit agents. Older, too - had to convince him I was - _ergh_ , wanting to have a drink with him. I dug myself in pretty deeply. He's the one who had the invoice by the way, so had to get him drunk and loose. I tell ya - if Aiblinger didn't walk into the bar when he did - I don't know how I'd have gotten out of that," you don't go into detail about what you did, just as you refrained from mentioning a direct flirtation with Val - but you don't need to. Erwin can tell from the wary look and uncomfortable shift in the air when you spoke that you had probably feigned an interest of some sort. He can't particularly blame you for it either, or find it too distasteful, as much as he finds an odd feeling in his gut at trying to picture it, it's far outweighed by how purely grateful he is that you would sacrifice your comfort so much just to help the scouts however you could.

"Right, no wonder you look so exhausted," he says after a moment "-that's a lot of stress to undergo for so long. I can see why the Premier ended your assignment," he looks out of the window again, then at you. There's a lot to process - and in truth, he still is - he didn't expect to hear so much about the interior, coupled with the audit information. The movements of the Royal Assembly were something he could never show an outright interest in, not if he wanted to preserve his safety, but the undercurrent was always there.

After all, there's no other power it could be, that could punish wrongthink so badly it would warrant his father's death. 

"You should stay here tonight, it's quite late. I could send a soldier off with you if you still want a ride back, but you will likely not get back to Falkshein until the small hours. Time has gotten away from us," he says, there's so much to contemplate that your snatching of Niklaus doesn't even factor in at the moment. 

The suggestion to stay at HQ fills you with relief, because you'd had a fair share of riding rickety, bumping carriages along malformed roads for hours on end, and a chilly ride on horseback was equally unappealing. Unlike the interior precinct, there is no central feeling of unease, or a lack of belonging in the HQ, even when you'd arrived under the pretense of service hours - you had always felt instinctively safe. No one looked at you wrongly, or uncomfortably, and quite frankly - you weren't sleeping very well at Warmaidens either, not unless you were crashing on Luther's floor. 

"I'd like that, I'm shattered," you sigh - closing your eyes a moment and letting some of the tension leave your body. You'd expected worse out of Levi's reaction, to be honest, and you expected the line of questioning to be more intense. It seems, however, that both men were at least willing to hold their horses until there's more information, and not throw you into immediate danger.

There's still something else left hanging unsaid - the troubling _other_ confession of Djel Sannes - but you do your best to put it to one side for a moment. There was already too much to work through, that you don't know if you should make it worse, to be honest. Out of everything you had discovered in the interior, Djel's confession regarding the commander's father was perhaps, the least pressing thing, if only because it had already occurred, and wasn't an imminent issue. If anything, it felt like kicking the hornets nest.

What even do you do in this situation? Is letting sleeping dogs lie, the right thing to do? To be honest, you're not sure if there's a good answer to that.

"How're we doing this, then?" you shift from foot to foot awkwardly, now that the business you'd came to discuss was, for the most part, concluded for now - the situation returned back to its natural state. The pair of you, alone in his office - maintaining a cover story, and it's now you add - hesitantly "-I had to tell Dhalis we're involved, just to have a reason to come down here," - you add, because otherwise, you'd still be doing office training with Val. Erwin remembers the agreement though, and doesn't bat an eye - he does, however, understand your line of questioning without embarrassing you into saying it.

_Where will I sleep?_

"It wouldn't do to have you in a soldier bunk, not with your rank and our cover. My quarters adjoin this office," - of course they do, he works too much, you think "-I could take the office tonight," - it isn't a suggestion that bothers him either, he's fallen asleep at his desk before.

"I'm not kicking you out of your own bed, I can take the office, or just - the floor in general, just grab some extra sheets," rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand. "-it's doing wonders for my back anyway," you reveal, perhaps too easily, that you've been sleeping on floors a while, and garner a genuine frown from the commander.

"You're not sleeping well?" he's gentle about it, but you looked exhausted the moment he'd been able to get a proper look at you. You just shrug - because in truth, you can't remember the last peaceful night you'd had. The ending of your assignment as Kristina Ermann should have been the end of the stress dreams, but in truth, they only seemed to worsen over time. 

"Not really, and between you and me I think Luther's getting annoyed with me sleeping on the floor. It was nice at first, after... y'know, everything. It was like a sleepover and we didn't have to be stuck in our own thoughts, but I think it's getting on his nerves now," you yawn again, and then stretch your arms out languidly, body clicking a little as you do.

"Hm." Erwin doesn't respond directly to it, but acknowledges your words with a thoughtful hum. The Brauns were a small, incredibly tight knit sort, and when the peaceful fabric of Warmaidens was torn, it seriously caused lasting damage - and whilst you hadn't really been expressing it so much, it was obvious now that even though the mourning period was over, the bar is back open, the wood repainted - it still just hurts, like an open, untreated wound.

"We'll work something out, lets finish up for tonight." He punctuates this by sliding your paperwork into a drawer in his desk, and blowing a candle out, surprisingly not at all anxious, or outwardly burdened by all of the new knowledge, he takes it into stride amazingly. It's practically enviable.

He gives you a calm smile, despite everything that's transpired, and leads you to his adjoining room.

"I hope I didn't embarrass you by the way - when I arrived today," you add, filling the quietness with a need to distract from the heaviness in your footsteps towards his room - because something about going into a bedroom is just inherently intimate - a window to a private area.

"I put a little effort in," you add, giving him a crooked smile when he looks back over his shoulder in. A little effort felt an understatement, because you manage the visage of the Premier's office with an enviable elegance he never would have imagined. Then it clicks - with the cover story he's beholden too, he supposes you just didn't know how to be, or present, as whatever being _his lover_ is like, and you're self-conscious about it. "-but we didn't really work out the details so I hope I wasn't coming on too strong," you add sheepishly.

It should have felt stranger, it really should have. There was something about walking into a mans bedroom with no expressly lewd purposes that made the palpable tension between you feel that much thicker. There's extra bedding, of course, though the commander can't say he's entirely comfortable with your willingness to sleep on his floor - and refusal to take the bed, you chatter to him, despite your exhausted state, and fill the room with comfortable noise. The room itself is exactly the sort of thing you'd expect - lined with books, impeccably neat, and bathed in the warm golden light of oil lamps with a large double bed as a centrepiece. 

"You came across just fine," he says smoothly - because he maintains that you probably could have turned up in a burlap sack and still turned a fair few heads - you just had a _way_ about you. He also finds it a little difficult to be embarrassed by a beautiful woman's attention, but perhaps the pair of you should have discussed what pretending to be with him is supposed to look like, he mused. "-so you needn't worry, I'm a difficult man to embarrass, anyway," he adds offhandedly as he opens his closet to prepare for bed.

"-Anything I can sleep in? I didn't plan to crash here," you don't mind stripping off a bit - the man had seen you naked, pretty much - and vice versa. Erwin is, however, impeccably polite and gentlemanly, and finds the softest thing in his wardrobe. Unfortunately, he only has one sleepwear set, and he's wearing it - so he apologises when he can only proffer a long, slim, white cardigan, likely worn over a casual button-down. It was definitely soft enough to sleep in, and Erwin being as tall as he is meant that it came all the way down to your top of your thighs at least.

He turns around out of respect when you begin peeling out of your hat, shoes, coat and dress, which is a modest little white number, much like the one you'd worn at the spring, though with blue accents instead of grey. He can hear it landing around your ankles as you step out of your clothes, seemingly unbothered as you pull the cardigan over yourself. Unfortunately, it too, lacks buttons, but offers some modesty - even if it's just a little. Underneath it is a soft, white corselet which felt a bit like a long camisole, fitted with suspender straps that held up the thick, thigh-high cotton stockings. It seemed to be standard fare for most ladies who wore dresses regularly. Granted, it was a little bit of an expenditure over normal underwear, you found it gave you much needed warmth, and coverage, when you were getting upskirted semi-regularly, as it ends around your upper thighs in a shorts-style, like a snug, form-fit little romper. It might have made going to the bathroom a slightly longer ideal, but for comfort, confidence and warmth, it was hard to beat. With a heart-shaped, lower neckline and desperately thin straps around your shoulders, accompanied with some weak, unpadded support under your bust, it easily shames any more standardly modest girdle that are typically for sale on shop mannequins geared at older women. It's otherwise totally nondescript, with no stitching or padding to speak of, and certainly covers more than most undergarments. Even still, though - Erwin finds himself a little guilted when he realises he perhaps should have offered the shirt he usually sleeps in, as an unbuttoned cardigan is significantly less of an issue for him, than you.

You, however, didn't seem to care, as cleavage didn't even particularly factor in as lewdly as it does to most. In fact, you were more preoccupied by the sight of the commander rolling the pyjama-shirt down his body, and glance away when he meets you gaze. The only thing that perhaps did feel a little odd, was being curled up on some bedding and sheets on the mans floor. 

"Just think of it like a sleepover," you give him a weak, cheeky smile which is weighed only by how tired you are. Truth is, he never really had those - but upon entering the forces and bunking with soldiers, he supposes it shouldn't feel odd, he just feels guilty.

That, and none of his bunk situations were exactly mixed sex - he thinks, eyes flickering down your collar bone and thin threadbare shoulder-straps.

"Sorry, but I really don't feel right letting you sleep on the floor," it hits him when he sits on his bed and looks down at you, bunching the sheets up over your torso that it feels intrinsically wrong and distinctly ungentlemanly to be gazing down at you from aloft on his bed. 

You shrug, and then gingerly climb up onto the bed after a moment of contemplation, looking at him thoughtfully.

"What have I said about worrying about me so much? Anyway, scoot over a second. I want to talk to you before we turn the lights out anyway," apparently - you're treating it a bit like a sleep over, and make it look all too easy to prop yourself up on the bed, flashes of your skin exposed underneath the taut suspender straps, revealing slivers of forbidden flesh until they disappear into your corselet. You're more covered than some one-piece swimsuits you'd worn in the past, so to be honest, you don't even think it's too strange to quickly pop yourself ontop his bed for a moment. It's large enough and there's still a gap between your bodies as you both sit upright against his headboard.

You've always been able to invade intimate spaces naturally, like you belonged there. Every time you propped yourself up on a bar table to chat or wrapped your arms around regulars with warmth and familiarity - you just did it _naturally._ Even now.

The commander wonders if he's feeling a little odd about it because of the seedy, ruinous thoughts he'd had a while back. It's not something he tortured himself with, or allowed himself to linger on, but with you gazing at him so trustingly, even now, in just your little underclothes, on his bed - it seems too much. Not unpleasantly so, but Hells, if you'd done that a little while back when he was a little bit more pent-up, he might have split his uniform at the very thought of you curling up on his bed. When he goes so long without any sort of physical release for untouched, unserviced desires for intimacy, his erotic thoughts become aggressive, obsessive, and downright needy, attacking him with all of his repressed, subtler yearnings until they're screaming in his face. As a result - that little - moment in Warmaidens, had filled him with a slight guilt after the fact, and right now? With you so ready to share a room and not read anything into your closeness? It's so, so very unguarded and trusting that he wonders, not for the first time, what he'd done to earn as much faith and loyalty from you.

Just hearing what you'd gone through as well - to help out the scouts, unasked - and endanger yourself profoundly in your deep cover role. He wonders if he perhaps keeps his friends at such an arm's length - that he has forgotten how to be good to them, because he feels a small, needling sense of shame on how he'd thought about you. So indecently, so undeservedly when you'd been nothing but friendly, sweet, kind, and as flirtatious as you are with _everybody_ else.

"I don't want to upset you, but I don't think I'm getting to sleep until I bring it up," you say shortly, looking distinctly uncomfortable now, nervously toying with your fingers out of habit. You fidget when you're dealing with trying to discuss an uncomfortable topic, you tend to use your fingers, hair, or hem of your clothes - Erwin noticed, and does his best to school his expression to a gentler one. The situation is strange enough, and without strictly saying anything more than _'I'm exhausted'_ \- he can tell you're stretched thin in an imperceptible, emotional sort of way. You had been for a while, because some untouched, stress-free part of you had died when Warner had, and he can tell that perhaps, much like in the spring - you're in a desperate need to decompress. You need to reclaim some of the peace he'd seen wash over you when you closed your eyes and relaxed in the deep end of the thermal waters. 

"Upset me?" it's been a while since anyone has said something like that to him, he's not typically somebody who is easily upset. He's someone that, perhaps, people might assume has anger or wrath, purely as he's so authoritarian in his commanding role, but he rarely expresses something like _upset_. Again, you persistently show a concern for his feelings, something that a lot of people don't really feel like they have to do, because he hides them as a default.

It's strangely nice.

"Yeah," you said, as a small silence falls between you, and he patiently waits for you to speak. 

"I wouldn't worry about that," - he's the commander, and you yourself had said he's the commander because he can handle anything. Even people resenting him, hating him, blaming him for the cost of war.

But regardless, it just didn't seem right to have been told by Djel Sannes, of all people, that the commander's father had been murdered with intent. Yes, you knew this already, but the who had never been confirmed in source material as far as you're aware, and what Djel had said made you think that perhaps Erwin just _didn't_ know who was responsible. He said himself he gave interior MPs a wide berth where he could. 

On an instinctual level, the very notion that you could know that, but Erwin might not, felt wrong to the core.

"Can you just - confirm something for me first?" you trail off. Your next few words instantly drain the salacious tension to a much more frigid one - because you don't want it to be true, really, even though you know it is, you don't want to awaken an old anger if it's anything like what you felt towards the men who'd assailed Warmaidens.

But you ask regardless, because you don't know how to open this conversation at all.

"What was your father's name?"

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed.


End file.
